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THE WESTERN SERIES OF ENGLISH AND 
AMERICAN CLASSICS 

S. R. Hadsell, Professor of English, University 
of Oklahoma, 
and 

George C. Wells, High School Inspector, State of 
Oklahoma 
General Editors 

Carlyle. Essay\ on Burns. Edited by Irene P. McKeehan, 
Professor of English Language, University of Colorado. 
Dickens. A Tale of Two Cities. Edited by George C. 
Wells. 

Eliot. Silas Marner. Edited by S. R. Hadsell and George 
C. Wells. 

Garrard. Wah-to-yah and the Taos Trail. Edited by 
Walter S. Campbell, Assistant Professor of English. 
University of Oklahoma. 

Goldsmith. She Stoops to Conquer. Edited by J. L. 

Rader, Librarian, University of Oklahoma. 

Irving. A Tour on the Prairies. Edited by Joseph B. 
Thoburn, Secretary of the Oklahoma Historical Society 
and George C. Wells, State High School Inspector of 
Oklahoma. 

Milton. Shorter Poems. Edited by L. J. Rarton, Professor 
of Modern Languages, East Central Teachers' College. 
Parkman. The Oregon Trail. Edited by Walter S. Camp¬ 
bell, Assistant Professor of Epglish, University of Ok¬ 
lahoma. 

Scott. The Lady of the Lake. Edited by Grace E. Jencke, 
Professor of English, Southwestern Teachers’ College. 
Scott. Ivanhoe. Edited by Bessie M. Huff. Head of the 
Department of English, Central High School, Musko¬ 
gee, Oklahoma. 

Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night's Dream. Edited by 
S. R. Hadsell. Professor of English, University of Ok¬ 
lahoma. 

Sheridan. The Rivals. Edited by J. L. Rader, Librarian, 
University of Oklahoma. 

Stevenson. Treasure Island. Edited by George C. Wells 
and S. R. Hadsell. 

Tennyson. Idylls of the King. Edited by S. R. Hadsell 
and George C. Wells. 

Others in Preparation 





SIR WALTER SCOTT 

















The Western Series of English and 


American Classics 


Ivanhoe 

A ROMANCE 


By 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 

11 


Edited for School Use 
by 

Bessie M. Huff 

Head, of Department of English, 
Central High School, Muskogee, Oklahoma 


HARLOW PUBLISHING COMPANY 
Oklahoma City 
1927 












Copyright, 1927 
By 

Harlow Publishing Co. 


©C1A1013168 


NOW 1977 


FOREWORD 


In preparing this edition of Ivanhoe for use in 
> chools, the editor has sought to make it possible for 
junior or senior high-school pupils to enjoy the story. 
Many years of experience have convinced her that too 
frequently the methods used have driven children from 
reading, thus defeating the purpose of literature 
\ caching in the public schools. 

| Since children cannot be selected, a teacher must 
cake all those who come and serve them. Immediate¬ 
ly she faces the problem of individual differences. 
The contracts suggested for teachers are presented to 
help her meet this situation. The solution to the prob¬ 
lem is individual effort, permitting each pupil to work 
at the rate he is able. 

Even if some are ready for the last contract, dram¬ 
atization of the book, later than others, they will en¬ 
joy presenting their own dramatization when they 
get the proper understanding, no matter how late the 
knowledge comes. Some people naturally work faster 
than others. After all, the purpose of all literature 
teaching is not the completion of a certain amount of 
prescribed work; it is the stimulation of human minds 
to action, the stimulation that causes something to 
happen in the mind of each and every child. 

The foot-notes can well be regarded as markers 
along a highway. Because they are there to guide 
those who need them, no one is ever asked to pass an 
examination on the situation of the markers. Indeed, 
they serve their purpose when they carry the traveller 
to his destination, which in Ivarihoe' is an enjoyable 
understanding of a good story, after a pleasant ex¬ 
perience in a journey of the mind. 

—BESSIE M. HUFF. 




















<* 




























































































































\ 
















CONTENTS 


Preface to Students— - i 

Life of Scott _—-- vii 

Chronological List of Scott’s Publications— xviii 

List of Characters_ _ xxi 

IVANHOE__ 1 

Appendix_ _ 643 

Glossary - 653 

Suggestions to Teachers and Students- 667 

















■ 




PREFACE FOR STUDENTS 

l ^ V • , 

/ou will read Ivanhoe to-day even a hundred years 
turjer it appeared first, because you will enjoy it. It 
is a story of action. Something happens every minute. 

Even in the mad rush of the present day when 
many travel in automobiles and airplanes, perhaps 
there never was a time when people prepared them¬ 
selves as thoroughly to have a good time as they do 
to-day. While the trip is the paramount pleasure, 
great care is taken in finding the proper equipment, 
in understanding the roads, and in learning something 
of the people and the country in which the journey 
is taken. 

Now, to apply the same principle to your trip 
through this magnificent story, what are the points 
of interest that you are going to learn in Ivanhoe 
which will add to your pleasure and understanding? 

In the first place, since you have not had English 
history, you are wondering what is behind the resent¬ 
ment that is shown between Norman and Saxon from 
the beginning. In 1066 the Normans came across 
from the northern part of France and conquered Eng¬ 
land. Of course they,, who spoke French and had 
French customs, brought with them their language 
and habits. Since they became the ruling class, they 
dominated all court life and higher classed of people. 
The lower classes, old Saxon land owners and people 
not dependent upon political aid from the government, 
tried in vain to keep alive the old Saxon life, language, 
and customs. There was a strong feeling of antagon¬ 
ism between these two peoples. Before the time of 
Ivanhoe, however, much of this feeling had been eradi¬ 
cated by intermarriage and by common interests. 
Scott reveals the spirit of the earlier times so W£ll 
that the inaccuracy in dates is pardoned. 


11 


IVANHOE 


The spirit of this struggle between these 
peoples permeates the entire book and enters int' 
three plots that form the story. This is pro | 
the second point that you want to know. Whert^ . 
you going in your story? The first plot, or stc a j 
was woven around Ivanhoe and Rowena. The ne> 
was the conspiracy of John and the affairs of Rir d | 
ard. The last involved the attempts of the Temp qjjj 
to secure Rebecca. While each thread is closely km 
to the other, perhaps the linking comes through tl * 
spirit of the Normans and the Saxons. In the firs 
Cedric, a Saxon of the old order, that was rapidi.» 
dying out, tried to prevent the marriage of Rowen 
a noble Saxon girl, and Ivanhoe, who was the loya; 
knight, a symbol of the new order that was destined 
to succeed with the ruling Normans. In the seeon, 
plot there was the struggle between the forces tha 
gathered themselves in sympathy around each group. 
While they resented having any Norman, the Saxons 
preferred Richard, the Crusading prince, who had 
long been away from the land. The Norman noble¬ 
men showed allegiance to Prince John, who had the 
throne in Richard’s absence and who feared Rich¬ 
ard’s return. Here again the spirit of the times is 
more true than the actual presentation of facts. In 
the third plot, the spirit of the old Norman-Saxon 
struggle is less prominent, except from the sentiment 
standpoint. The Templar, a representative of one of 
the most picturesque of old institutions, a degenerate 
knight, and an evil character, was friendly to the 
Normans. Rebecca, who belonged to the race that 
aided the Normans but was despised by them, was a 
bit like Ivanhoe; she represented a new order. She 
drew her aid from a person free from prejudice. 

Robin Hood, De Bracy, Wamba, Gurth, and the Friar, 
* 






Preface to Students 


iii 


took his place in belonging to one side or the 
0 as you can plainly see as you read the story. 

comes the third question. What kind of people 
pere in the book, or, in other words, how are the 
f peters portrayed? 

^ruly you cannot get very well acquainted with the 
! fracters; at least they make no change before you. 

r y grow neither worse nor better. Rebecca is, 

, ‘. naps, an exception. You can see the growth of 
love for Ivanhoe and her struggle to remain true 
‘ ? her race. Ivanhoe is essentially a book of action 
jd not of character delineation, 
yrhe places around which the action is centered 
jpre connected in a very interesting manner, by in¬ 
cidents that involve the various characters that move 
cickly before your eyes. The first part of the book 
is centered around the tournament. Here entered 
Wamba, Gurth the Prior, the Templar, Cedric, Isaac, 
Rowena, Athelstane, Prince John, Locksley, and Ivan¬ 
hoe. The storming of the castle, the second place, 
involved most of these along with Richard, the Friar, 
Front-de-Bceuf, and De Bracy. The third was the 
judicial combat in which the Templar and Rebecca 
were the most concerned. Of course Ivanhoe came 
into the story prominently here. In each part of the 
story there is a point of highest interest. See if you 
can pick a climax for each of these three plots and 
situations. 

No doubt you are wondering about the name. 
Scott took it from an old rhyme concerning three 
manors forfeited by the ancestor of John Hampden 
to the Black Prince for striking him a blow with a 
racket when they quarreled at a game of tennis: 
“Twing, Wing, and Ivanhoe, 

For striking of a blow, 

Hampden did forgo, 

And glad he could escape so.” 




iv 


IVANHOE 


Scott chose the name because it had an ancient* 
English sound and because it gave no hint as to the! 
ending of the story. 

Ivanhoe, the first historical novel written, was well 
received. It marks the height of Scott’s popularity. 
“As a work of art,” Lockhart says, 1 “Ivanhoe is per¬ 
haps the first of all Scott’s efforts, whether in prose 
or in verse; nor have the strength and splendor of 
his imagination been displayed to a higher advantage 
than in some of the scenes of this romance.” As h 
was suffering from an illness at the time Ivanlit 
was written, much of it was dictated. The parts 
that were in Scott’s handwriting were very neat. He 
never rewrote any of his prose before sending it to 
the publisher. 

Many object to the ending of the story, 1 but surely 
you cannot spend long in regret concerning the end 
of a story when there are such thrilling events as 
tournaments, encounters with outlaws, and castle bom¬ 
bardments to remember. Ivanhoe, the Black Knight 

Lockhart’s life of Scott, Page 421, Vol. III. 

During the Sesqui-Centennial in 1926, one of the new 
papers of Philadelphia carried an extensive story of E 
becca Gratz, prototype of Rebecca, who was an eav 
resident of Philadelphia and whose grave is on the no 
side of Spruce Street above Eighth Street, opposite 
Pennsylvania Hospital. Mass Gratz became a friei 
Washington Irving because she was a true friend of 
Matilda Hoffman to whom Irving was engaged and I 
whom he was faithful even after her early death befoi, 
their marriage. When Mr. Irving visited Scott at Abbots j 
ford, he told the Scotch writer about the character of Re¬ 
becca and expressed a desire that Scott could put her into ! 
one of his stories. 

In her life-time, the Rebecca of Philadelphia did not 
marry, but spent a long life of over eighty years in de¬ 
voted service to the community and her loved ones. The 
following is the leading paragraph of her will: “I, Re- 







Preface to Students 


v 


Cedric, and the Templar certainly claim anyone’s at¬ 
tention until he can almost imagine he is among them. 
Can you not almost actually see Ivanhoe in the first 
|| tournament? His skill, ease, and good sportsmanship 
i made his victory certain. Gurth and Wamba were not 
I bad servants, after all Cedric said about them, were 
they? They went further than any freeman might do 
in carrying out his duties. Wamba certainly “gave 
service with a smile.” You cannot help being glad 
♦that Rowena did not marry Athelstane, now can you? 
>It was not all because he thought of nothing but 
something to eat, either. If you object to the ending 
of the story, what would you do with Rowena? You 
cannot let your mind dwell on any one character, 
because just when that one gets quiet enough for you 
to study him, along comes another one to take first 
place in your attention. Ivanhoe is a book of action, 
one in which people do things. 

Frequently attention is directed to the historical 
inaccuracies in Ivanhoe. Why notice the thorns when 
the rose is there to see? Great musicians can make 
harmonious discords that no amateur dare play. A 
kittle boy once objected that grandfather could nod 
r ^pd sleep in his chimney corner as much as he 
-leased, when he said: 

“Put if I close my eyes and nod my head 
hil am sure to be marched right off to bed.” 

ou and I cannot confuse our facts, because we 
ave not stood the test of ages to prove our worth 


fbecca Gratz, < f Philadelphia, being in sound health of body 
and mind, advanced in the vale of years, declare this to 
be my last will and testament. I commit my spirit to the 
God Who gave it, relying on His mercy and redeeming love, 
and believing with a firm-and perfect faith in the religion 
of my fathers—‘Hear O, Israel, the Lord God is one Lord’.” 
She in practice carried out what the Rebecca of Ivanhoe 
declared she was going to do with her life. 








VI 


Preface to Students 


in any special field; but certainly Sir Walter Scott, 
who was the master of the art of story-telling,,, is be¬ 
yond our criticism in respect to historical errors, 
however just it may be to recognize that he was his¬ 
torically inaccurate. All we need to do is to read 
and to enjoy the lively and fascinating tale told in 
Ivanhoe. Let us permit Scott to lead our imagina¬ 
tion, as he did those of his classmates of the past, 
through a romance of early days. 







LIFE OF SCOTT 


Why study Sir Walter Scott? No doubt when you 
are grown, the children in the schools will be say¬ 
ing, “Why talk about Lindbergh?” 

Up to the time of Scott, people were not accus¬ 
tomed to stories that gave them pictures of human 
life in interesting, outdoor situations. In fact so 
well did-Scott succeed that he took the people of his 
day by storm, just as the young “Ace of the Air” took 
the world of 1927. His books were read by young 
and old. Writers of England imitated him. Foreign¬ 
ers translated his works into other tongues. Nor 
has the popularity of Scott’s hovels decreased as time 
has passed. Such word pictures of early English life, 
knights, and tournaments, as well as of Scottish 
Highlanders and of Scottish life did he paint that 
people to-day read and study Scott’s works. They 
consider it a privilege to view the past through a 
lens polished by a master hand, through a powerful 
story told by Scott. 

Do you suppose that the children will some day 
have difficulty in imagining Lindbergh as a boy? 
Sometimes the youth of great men fade before their 
prominence. To get a true picture of Scott, you must 
imagine a lame boy who consciously and resolutely 
gained health until he could walk from twenty-five 
to thirty miles in a day’s hike. He loved the open. 
When he was not walking, he rode horseback over the 
highlands and lowlands of Scotland, until he knp , it 
as you know the favorite country through which you 
drive. He liked to hunt. He even ^ed to fight in 
the school yard. No doubt L's ability to mimic 
people, while it led him into difficulties in the school 
room, helped him to see interesting traits in others. 
Above all he enjoyed making up and telling a tale to 





Vlll 


IVANHOE 


see his friends grow excited in anticipation of how 
the story was going to end. Scott was just a live, 
wide-awake boy, even if he was born in 1771. You 
would have liked him if you had known him, and 
there is no reason why you cannot become ac¬ 
quainted with him. 

If he had not later in life overcome his ill health, 
the affliction that came on him when he was eigh¬ 
teen months old would be very sad. As the result of 
teething fever, he was left powerless to use his right 
leg. The little fellow was sent to the country to the 
farm house known as Sandy-Knowe. Every possible 
remedy was tried. In a peculiar one he was wrapped 
in the warm hide of a sheep which had just been 
killed. He was frequently carried out to the old 
shepherd who let him lie in the sun on the ground 
among the sheep. One day he was forgotten when a 
thunder storm came up unexpectedly. His aunt 
rushed out to find him lying on his back and exclaim¬ 
ing delightedly at each flash of lightning, “Bonny, 
bonny.” This contact with nature, the fresh air, 
special baths, and natural exercise, brought on by 
a desire to do as others did, gave the boy the neces¬ 
sary strength to begin to walk. 

An uncle gave Walter a small Shetland pony not 
so large as a big Newfoundland dog. The boy was 
permitted to bring his pet into the house and to feed 
it himself. He learned to ride well. So much did 
he think of the pony that he bought one for a grand¬ 
child in his later life and gave the new pony the 
name, Marion, the same his childhood playmate had 
borne. 

Because he had been ill and because he had been 
cared for by an aunt and a grandfather who granted 
all his wishes, he was wilful, wanting his own way 
when he returned for a time to his father’s house. 



Life of Scott 


IX 


The author’s mother was a great inspiration to him 
in her sympathy for his delight in imaginative read¬ 
ing. He had a passion for reading, but he wanted 
to read just what he pleased. The private teachers 
and the masters in the schools Scott attended in 
Edinburgh found that it was a task to get him to 
learn his Latin and Greek. He was not, however, 
void of ambition. He aspired to be at the head of 
his class, but he did not always want to work to get 
there. There was one time that he played a decidedly 
boyish prank in order to attain his desire. He no¬ 
ticed that the boy at the top of the class always 
played with a certain button on his coat while he was 
reciting. Walter cut the button from the boy’s coat 
and the boy failed to recite. As a result of his 
trick, Walter went to the head of the class. 

It was in the “yards”, the play-ground, that he 
was “more distinguished” than in the class room. 
Mentally, he could easily have led, but he no doubt 
felt that he was not a boy among boys unless he 
showed his physical strength. On the first day he 
entered one school, he received a bloody nose because 
he insisted upon not being favored because he was 
a cripple. But he had exceptional strength in the 
arms and chest so that he soon maintained a place of 
respect among his friends. 

After he had won them on their own ground, the 
boys soon came to appreciate his special talent. They 
took delight in gathering about him to have him tell 
them tales that he pictured in his mind. No doubt 
his powers of mimicking added to the vivacity of his 
speech and manner until the boys who could not 
create tales themselves could at least live in their 
imaginations the tales he told. James Ballantyne, 
with whom he attended Grammar School* for a few 
weeks, and he would spend hours in school and out 


X 


IVANHOE 


of school together. Always Walter related to his 
interesting companion some fascinating adventure. 

Scott’s mother wanted his education to be well 
rounded. She even attempted to give him music les¬ 
sons along with his brothers, but she gave up her 
ambition when a neighbor protested over all the 
children being flogged at once because they could not 
learn to play. Scott could not draw either, a failure 
he regretted immensely, later in his life because 
there were times when he would like to draw.piceures 
of things that he saw in his travels. He contented 
himself with cutting pieces of tre§s of various places 
to put in what he called his “log-book.” How inter¬ 
esting a collection of out-door historical places he 
must have had! Evidently Stamp collections and 
memory books are not new ideas after all. 

The boy’s excursions became such a passion with 
him that he often went distances which kept him 
away from home long enough to make his parents 
alarmed. Had he not been an out-door creature, no 
doubt he would not have recovered from a severe 
illness in his youth when a blood vessel in his ab¬ 
domen burst. By dogged determination, out-door 
living, and careful diet, he lived to be strong. He 
says, “My frame gradually became hardened with 
my constitution, and being both tall and muscular, 
I was rather disfigured than disabled by my lame¬ 
ness. This personal disadvantage did not prevent 
me from taking much exercise on horseback, and 
making long journeys on foot, in the course of which 
I often walked from twenty to thirty miles a day .” 1 

Rollicking, lively boys must settle into staid busi¬ 
ness men sooner or later. Walter Scott’s father de¬ 
cided that he should be a lawyer. Since Walter, who 
knew much about literature, folk lore, and nature, 

'Lockhart’s Life of Scott, page 49: Vol. I. 




Life of Scott 


XI 


did not especially want to be a lawyer, he admits that 
he was forced to study when he read law to learn all 
the facts he needed. He studied Roman and Civil 
law during the years 1789, 1790, 1791, 1792, when he 
was admitted to the bar. He devoted himself to the 
task in a whole-souled manner, even though in the be¬ 
ginning of his professional career, he had to copy 
long documents in long hand for hours at a time. 

Scott loved and married Miss Carlotte Margaret 
Carpenter in 1797. His meeting is somewhat mod¬ 
ern and very romantic. He and a friend who hap¬ 
pened to be at a house party were riding out to amuse 
themselves one morning. They saw a young woman, 
also out for a ride, who attracted them, and they 
followed her until they assured themselves that she 
was a member of the same house party. Scott’s 
brother and the friend dressed in their army uni¬ 
forms for the ball in the evening. There was no 
little rivalry as to who should be the first to meet 
the young woman of the morning. Highly amusing, 
however, was the fact that when they were intro¬ 
duced Walter Scott succeeded in escorting the young 
woman to supper even though his brother and his 
friend had made many preparations for a conquest. 

Scott, upon his marriage to Miss Carpenter, did not 
take her at once to the noted Castle of Abbotsford 
which many tourists visit to-day. They lived in 
Scott’s North Castle Street house in Edinburgh; later 
they were at a hired cottage at Lasswade which is on 
the Esk about seven miles from Edinburgh; from 
there they moved to Ashesteil situated on the south¬ 
ern bank of the Tweed, a few miles from Selkirk. 
Here Scott’s family of two boys and two girls had 
the fun of playing in an old-fashioned garden with 
holly hedges and broad; green terrace walks. 

He became famous among the lawyers for his story 


IVANHOE 


xii 

telling. Mien liked to listen to him. In spite of his 
desire to keep his law practice, his pleasure led him 
toward his literary career. A trip along the Border 
country in the fall of 1792 and an excursion in the 
following summer into some of the finest districts of 
Stirlingshire and Perthshire stimulated his ambi¬ 
tion. Here he familiarized himself with the country 
and people around it by staying a week or ten days 
at a time in the homes of the country people. 

From 1800, when he was at work on “The Minstrelsy 
of the Scottish Border” until the day of his death, 
he was to be found in a busy whirl of legal, political, 
and literary activity. In 1799, he was given an ap¬ 
pointment to the sheriffship of Selkirkshire which 
relieved him enough financially that he could devote 
some time to writing. 

Shortly after the appearance of “The Minstrels of 
the Scottish Border” in 1802, “The Lay of the Last 
Minstrel” appeared in 1805. “Marmion” was pub¬ 
lished in 1808 and “The Lady of the Lake” in 1810. 
The major portion of his early works was poetry. 
So good was it that he was offered the Poet-laureate- 
ship of England. But because he already was in the 
service of the government and because he felt that 
there were other men in England who earned their 
living entirely by*writing and who were more worthy 
than he was for the place, he declined. It is in¬ 
teresting to note that his activity in this field brought 
him recognition from other noted English poets of 
the time; namely, Wordsworth, who admired him per¬ 
sonally; Byron, who was generous of his praise, and 
Southey, who later became Poet-laureate. Coleridge 
and Scott had already met and were friends. 

He had received a second aid financially when he 
was appointed in 1806 to a public office which he 
held successfully for twenty-five years. He was ap- 



Life of Scott 


xiii 


pointed clerk to the Judges of the Inner Court of 
Scotland, which was in session from May 12 to July 
12 and again from November 12 to March 12 with a 
short vacation at Christmas. He was busy approxi¬ 
mately six hours a day. Is it not remarkable he 
found time to write? 

In 1814 he published the novel Waverly which was 
at once popular. Guy Mannering, The Antiquary, 
Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, The Heart of Midlothian, 
and Rob Roy, all followed within the next four years. 
The next five years saw the publication of the his¬ 
torical romances: Ivanhoe, Kenilworth, The Fortunes 
of Nigel and Quentin Durward. The Talisman, a tale 
of the Crusaders, came out in 1825. 

These and many others followed, for Scott 
wrote forty-eight books in twenty-nine years from 
1802 to 1832. These were translated into foreign 
languages. Goethe, a noted German writer, said 
that he enjoyed the “wonderful pictures of human 
life” that he gained from reading the Waverly novels. 
Carlyle once wrote Scott that he was carrying a mes¬ 
sage from Goethe to Scott. This he sent by letter 
with praise of Scott. It is to be regretted that the 
two Scottish writers, Scott and Carlyle, never did 
meet, for each desired to know the other. They had 
corresponded many times. 

While Scott was busy with his writing, many other 
important events were taking place in his life. He 
became the silent partner in 1808 in the firm “John 
Ballantyne and Co., Booksellers, Edinburgh.” He 
appears to have supplied at least three-fourths of 
the capital. Thus he entered into an enterprise that 
was later to influence his life materially. In 1811 he 
purchased the site of Abbotsford by means of money 
borrowed partly on a new poem, Rokeby. No doubt 
Mrs. Scott hesitated to move into a small house in 


XIV 


IVANHOE 


a barren plot of land then known by the ugly title 
of “Clarty Hole/’ Scott liked ^this place because it 
was the scene of the Border battle fought in the 
presence of James V between the Kerrs and the 
Scotts. Also the river Tweed was there to make a 
beginning for the beautiful and interesting estate 
which Scott was able to make of it in fourteen years 
of labor and with much expenditure of money. 

Some of the rooms of Abbotsford, especially those 
used most by Scott, are open to visitors to-day, 
showing furniture of that time, if not the original. 
The castle is large because Scott wanted a place for 
his own family, their friends, and all the cousins and 
distant relatives. He liked to make people happy. 
Though he spent many hours in study and in writing 
when he was at Abbotsford, he always found time for 
people. One would think, to see his round of activity, 
that he did nothing but entertain. Many came to 
see him. As his fame grew, many made demands 
upon his time, but always he was a considerate, pleas¬ 
ing host. 

The pride that he had in a name and title was 
gratified in 1820 when he had conferred upon him a 
baronetcy, an honor which he did not seek. It was 
evidence of the respect that was felt for him by the 
King, and recognition of him as a worthy citizen. 

As one naturally expects of a man as thoughtful 
of others as Scott was, he took a great interest in 
his family. He taught the children much about the 
out-of-doors. Indeed, he expected his two daughters 
Sophia and Anne, to love nature as much as their 
two brothers, Walter, Jr., and Charles. For the girls 
he provided tutors so that they received their educa¬ 
tion entirely in the home. The elder son, who in¬ 
herited Abbotsford, rose to the position of Captaincy 
in the English army. The younger son, Charles, at- 




Life of Scott 


xv 


tended university, caring for literature and refine¬ 
ment. The two boys were unlike in appearance and 
manner: the older tall and athletic, the model of a 
cavalier, with gentle frankness; the younger, slender 
and delicate in frame with bearing of womanly gentle¬ 
ness and reserve. They kept to the end of their lives 
the warmth of affection of the lovely childhood which 
was given them by understanding parents, Lady and 
Sir Walter Scott. 

Such strong prejudice did Scott have against any¬ 
one marrying in the month of May that he rushed 
away from the ceremony in March in which he be¬ 
came a baronet that his older daughter might have 
her wedding in April. She married J. G. Lockhart, 
who afterward wrote the best biography of Scott 
written. These two men were great friends. Of his 
four children, it is said that Sophia had disposition 
and tastes most like her father. While he showed no 
partiality, for Anne was a comfort to the family dur¬ 
ing all illness, he enjoyed the company of Sophia and 
that of her husband immensely. 

Scott’s only daughter-in-law pleased him as much 
as did his son-in-law. Neither Charles nor Anne 
married. Upon only one occasion did Scott give a 
formal ball. This was on Christmas of 1824. Abbots¬ 
ford had been completed. The whole castle was in 
gala attire, the festival being in honor of the be¬ 
trothal of his older son, Walter, and Jane, the niece 
of his special friend, Sir Adam Ferguson. 

The fifth child, or the one who had^ the place in 
the affections of Scott as a fifth child, was another 
Walter, a nephew for whom Scott provided until the 
boy was able to go to India as an engineer. With 
all three boys Sir Walter corresponded in letters 
that you might find very interesting. This busy fa¬ 
ther found time always to think of his boys. 


XVI 


IVANHOE 


It is sad to think! that in his last days Scott had 
financial worries, but they were not the result 
of his own mismanagement. The printing firm, 
with which he had earlier connected himself as 
a silent pardner, failed. Poor business manage¬ 
ment on the part of those actively engaged in run¬ 
ning the business and Scott’s refusal to pay very 
strict attention to the conditions that threatened, 
so great was his confidence in his friends, led from 
bad to worse until complete failure came in 1826. 
Being honorable, Scott felt himself obligated to pay 
the debts in full. As a result, he wrote rapidly in 
spite of ill-health, sorrow at the death of his wife 
in the same year as his failure, and worry over his 
financial condition. He even offered Abbotsford to 
his creditors, but it was refused. By the tenth of 
June, 1827, the amount he had earned by writing to¬ 
ward diminishing his debt was at least twenty-eight 
thousand pounds. There is no doubt that his death 
was hastened by his worries and overwork. 

After Scott was stricken with paralysis, a result of 
his strenuous work, he was taken abroad to Italy 
by his family in the hopes that he might recover. He 
was a much honored guest, the most popular author of 
all Europe. He received every mark of attention. Vil¬ 
las, libraries, and museums were pressed upon him. 
The trip probably was too great a strain for him. 
At any rate, he was again stricken upon his return 
to London. So great was his desire to reach Abbots¬ 
ford that the doctors consented to his being moved. 
His satisfaction at being home made him better for 
a time. His last days were pleasant for him, even 
though he felt sadness at feeling his vitality slip from 
him. On September 21, 1832, Sir Walter Scott died 
quietly. A great figure in literature, he had done 
nothing throughout his life to mar his reputation 
as a man, a good man. 


Ivan hoe 


XVII 


Chronological List of the Best-Known Publica¬ 
tions of Sir Walter Scott. 

1802— Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. 

1805— The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

1806— Ballads and Lyrical Pieces. 

1808— Marmion; Life and Works of John Dry den. 

1810— The Lady of the Lake. 

1811— Vision of Don Roderick. 

1813— The Bride of Triermain. 

1814— Life and Works of Jonathan Swift; Waverley. 

1815— Guy Mannering; The Field of Waterloo. 

1816— The Antiquary; Tales of My Landlord, First 
Series (The Black Dwarf and Old Mortality). 

1817— Rob Roy. 

1818— Tales of My Landlord, Second Series (The 
Heart of Mid-Lothian.) 

1819— Tales of My Landlord, Third series (The Bride 
of Lammermoor and Legend of Montrose); 
lvanhoe. 

1820— The Monastery; The Abbott; Lives of the Nov¬ 
elists. 

1821— Kenilworth; The Pirate. 

1822— The Fortunes of Nigel; Halidon Hill; Macduff's 
Gross. 

1823— Quentin Durward; Essay on Romance; St. 
Ronan’s Well. 

1824— Redgauntlet. 

1825— Tales of the Crusades; The Betrothed; The 

Talisman. 

1826— Malachi; Letters of Malagrowther; Woodstock. 

1827— Life of Napoleon Bounaparte; Chronicles of the 



xviii 


IVANHOE 


C(mongate, First Series (The Two Drovers, The 
Highland Widow, The Surgeon’s Daughter); 
Tales of a Grandfather, First Series. 

1828— Chronicles of the Canongate, Second Series 
(The Fair Maid of Perth); Tales of a Grand¬ 
father, Second Series. 

1829— Ann of Geierstein; History of Scotland; Tales 
of a Grandfather, Third Series. 

1830— The Doom of Devorgoil and Auchindrayie; Es¬ 
says of Ballad Poetry; Tales of a Grandfather. 
Fourth Series. 

1831— Tales of my Landlord, Fourth Series (Count 
Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous.) 


Ivan hoe 


XIX 


LIST OF CHARACTERS APPEARING IN IVANHOE 

(A few minor characters have been omitted) 

Alicia, Lady, daughter of Waldemar Fitzurse. 
Allan-a-Dale, minstrel in Robin Hood’s band. 

Ambrose, a monk in attendance upon Prior Aymer. 

Anselm, servant to Front-de-Bceuf. 

An wold, servant of Cedric. 

Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a Saxon thane. 

Aymer, prior of Cistercian Abbey of Jorvaulx. 
Beaumanoir, Lucas, Marquis de, Grand Master of the 
Knights Templars. 

Bigot, De, sepeschal to Prince John. 

Black Knight—Black Sluggard, Richard. 

Bois^Guilbert, Sir Brian de, a Knights Templar. 

Bracy, Sir Maurice de, leader of band of free lances. 
Cedric of Rot her wood, the Saxon thane. 

Clerk of Copmanhurst, Friar Tuck, a hermit. 

| Pennet, Father, peasant. 

; Disinherited Knight, Ivanhoe. 

j Edith, Lady, mother of Athelstane of Coningsburgh. 

, Elgitha, maid of Lady Rowena. 

Engebred, Eustace —of Front-de-Bceuf’s household. 

: Fitzurse, Waldem:ar, a Norman baron. 

| Gilbert, an outlaw. 

: Giles, servant of Front-de-Bceuf. 

I Grantmesnil, Hugh de, a Norman baron. 

| Ivanhoe, Sir Wilfred of, son of Cedric. 

! Higg, Saxon peasant. 

j Hubert, a forester in service of Sir Philip de Malvoisin. 

| Hundebert, in Cedric’s household. 

Isaac of York, the Jew. 

Ivanhoe, Sir Wilfred of, son of Cedric. 

Jocelyn, in Front-de-Boeuf’s household, 
i John, Prince, brother of King Richard. 

| Kirjath J airman, Jew; kinsman of Isaac. 

Knight of the* Fetterlock, Richard. 

| Locksley, Robert, yeoman. 

I Malvoisin, Sir Albert de, Preceptor of Knights Templars. 


XX 


IVANHOE 


Martival, Stephen de, Marshal of field of Ashby tourna 
merit. 

Mont-Fitchet, Preceptor of Knight Templars. 

Nathan Ben Israel, Jewish rabbi. 

Noir Faineant, Le Richard. 

Oswald, Baldwin de, squire to Bois-Guilbert. 

Rebecca, a Jewess, daughter of Isaac. 

Richard Coeur-de-Lion, King of England. 

Robin Hood, Locksley. 

Rowena, Bady, Saxon lady; ward of Cedric. 

Saint Maub, servant of Front-de-Bceuf. 

Samuel, Rabbi Ben, friend of Isaac. 

Stephen, servant of Front-de-Boeuf. 

Ulrica, Ulfried, old Saxon woman. 

Vipont, Sir Ralph de, a Knight Hospitaller. 

Wamba, Cedric’s jester. 

Wibbald, an outlaw. 

Woffram, a Saxon, Abbot of St. Edmund’s. 

Wyvil, William de, marshal of the field at Ashby tourna 
ment. 


Ivanhoe 

CHAPTER I 

Thus, communed these; while to their lowly dome. 

The full-fed swine return’d with evening home: 

Compell’d, reluctant, to the several sties, 

With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries. 

Pope’s Odyssey. 

In that pleasant district of merry England which 
is watered by the river Don, there extended in an¬ 
cient times a large forest, covering the greater part 
of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between 
Sheffield 1 and the pleasant town of Doncaster . 2 3 The 
remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen 
at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Wharncliffe 
Park, and around Rotherham. Here haunted of yore 
the fabulous Dragon of Wantey s ; here were fought 
many of the most desperate battles during the Civil 
Wars of the Roses ; 4 and here also flourished in 
ancient times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose 
deeds have been rendered so popular in English 
song. 

'This city in Yorkshire is noted for cutlery. 

2 Tlie termination castra , derived from the Latin word 
castra meaning “military camp.” shows the Roman in¬ 
fluence. It is to be found in Lancaster, Leicester, and 
Chester. Doncaster means the camp on the river Don. 

3 Wantley, a mispronunciation of Wharncliffe. Percy’s 
Reliques tells the legend of the killing of the dragon by 
More, a legendary hero clad in armor, who succeeded in 
his heroic deed by attacking the monster in the mouth, the 
only vulnerable spot. 

4 Civil wars in England lasting from 1450-1485. The name 
comes from the emblems of the opposing sides which were 
roses, the white rose the emblem of the House of York 
and the red rose that of the House of Lancaster. 





2 


IVANHOE 


Such being our chief scene, the date of our story 
refers to a period towards the end of the reign of 
Richard I., 1 when his return from his long captivity 
had become an event rather wished than hoped for 
by his despairing subjects, who were in the mean¬ 
time subjected to every species of subordinate op¬ 
pression. The nobles, whose power had become ex¬ 
orbitant during the reign of Stephen, 2 and whom the 
prudence of Henry the Second 3 had scarce reduced 
* into some degree of subjection to the crown, had 
now resumed their ancient license in its utmost ex¬ 
tent; despising the feeble interference of the En¬ 
glish Council of State, 4 fortifying their castles, in¬ 
creasing the number of their dependents, reducing 
all around them to a state of vassalage, and striv¬ 
ing by every means in their power, to place them¬ 
selves each at the! head of such forces as might en¬ 
able him to make a figure in the national convul¬ 
sions which appeared to be impending. 

The situation of the inferior gentry, or Franklins, 
as they were called, who, by the law and spirit of the 
English constitution, were entitled to hold them¬ 
selves independent of feudal tyranny, 0 became now 
unusually precarious. If, as was most generally the 
case, they placed themselves under the protection of 
any of the petty kings 6 in their vicinity, accepted 


^ing of England from 1189-1199. He was absent for 
long periods during which he was in one of the Crusades. 
He was captured and held in Austria, returning in 1194. 
During his absence his brother John reigned. 
a King of England 1135-1154. 

•King of England 1154-1189; father of Richard I. 

4 A general name given to the king’s advisers. 

®A freeman held land in his own right, subject only to 
the king and independent of lords or barons. 

°The barons. 



IVANHOE 


3 


of feudal offices in his household, or bound them¬ 
selves, by mutual treaties of alliance and protection, 
to support him in his enterprises, they might indeed 
purchase temporary repose; but it must be with the 
sacrifice of that independence which was so dear to 
every English bosom, and at the certain hazard of 
being involved as a party in whatever rash expedi¬ 
tion the ambition of their protector might lead him 
to undertake. On the other hand, such and so mul¬ 
tiplied were the means of vexation and oppression 
possessed by the great Barons, that they never 
wanted the pretext, and seldom the will, to harass 
and pursue, even to the very edge of destruction, any 
of their less powerful neighbors, who attempted to 
separate themselves from their authority, and to 
trust for their protection, during the dangers of the 
times, to their own inoffensive conduct, and to the 
laws of the land. 

A circumstance which greatly tended to enchance 
the tyranny of the nobility, and the sufferings of the 
inferior classes, arose from the consequences of the 
Conquest by Duke William of Normandy. 1 Four 
generations had not sufficed to blend the hostile 
blood of the Normans and Anglo-Saxons, or to unite, 
by common language and mutual interests, two hos¬ 
tile races, one of which still felt the elation of tri¬ 
umph, while the other groaned under all the con¬ 
sequences of defeat. The power had been complete¬ 
ly placed in the hands of the Norman nobility, by 
the event of the battle of Hastings, 2 and it had been 

m' 


’William the Conqueror. 

2 William the Conqueror invaded England and at the 
battle of Hastings, 1066, conquered Harold, the English 
king. He set up the fuedal system, parceling out the 
land to his Norman followers. 





4 


IVANHOE 


used, as our histories assure us, with no moderate 
hand. The whole race of Saxon princes and nobles 
had been extirpated or disinherited, with few or no 
exceptions; nor were the numbers great who pos¬ 
sessed land in the country of their fathers, even as 
proprietors of the second, or of yet inferior classes. 
The royal policy had long been to weaken, by every* 
means, legal or illegal, the strength of a part of the 
population which was justly considered as nourish¬ 
ing the most inveterate antipathy to their victor. 
All the monarchs of the Norman race had shown 
the most marked predilection for their Norman sub¬ 
jects; the laws of the chase, and many others, equal¬ 
ly unknown to the milder and more free spirit of 
the Saxon constitution, had been fixed upon the neck 
of the subjugated inhabitants, to add weight, as it 
were, to the feudal chains with which they were 
loaded. At court, and in the castles of the great 
nobles, where the pomp and state of a court was 
emulated, Norman-French was the only language 
employed; in courts of law, the pleadings and judg¬ 
ments were delivered in the same tongue. In short, 
French was the language of honor, of chivalry, and 
even of justice while the far more manly and ex¬ 
pressive Anglo-Saxon was abandoned to the use of 
rustics and hinds, who knew no other. Still, how¬ 
ever, the neces'sary intercourse between the lords of 
the soil, and those oppressed (inferior beings by, 
whom that soil wa'3 cultivated, occasioned the grad¬ 
ual formation of a dialect, compounded betwixt the 
French and the Anglo-Saxon, in iwhich they could 
render themselves mutually intelligible to each 
other; and from this necessity arose by degrees the 
structure of our present English language, in which 
the speech of the victors and the vanquished have 
been so happily blended together; and which has 


IVANHOE 


5 


since been so richly improved by importations from 
the classical languages, and from those spoken by 
the southern nations of Europe. 

This state of things I have thought it necessary 
to premise for the information of the general reader, 
who might be apt to forget, that, although no great 
historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark 
the existence of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate peo¬ 
ple subsequent to the reign of William the Second 1 2 ; 
yet the great national distinctions betwixt them and 
their conquerors, the recollection of what they had 
formerly been, and to what they were now reduced, 
continued, down to the reign of Edward the Third,'’ 
to keep open the wounds which the Conque t had in¬ 
flicted, and to'maintain a line of separation betwixt 
the descendants of the victor Normans and the van¬ 
quished Saxons. 

The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy 
glades of that forest, which we have mentioned in 
the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of broad¬ 
headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oak:, which 
had witnessed perhaps the stately march of the 
Roman soldiery, 3 flung their gnarled arms over a 
thick carpet of the most delicious greensward; in 
some places they were intermingled with beeches, 
hollies, and copsewood of various descriptions, so 
closely as totally to intercept the level beams of the 
sinking sun; in others they receded from each other, 
forming those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy 
of which the eye delights to lose itself, while imagi- 


] The son of the Conqueror, William Rufus, King 1087- 
1100 . 

2 King, 1327-1377. 

3 The Romans beginning in 55 B. C. had ruled England 
for several hundred years. 

Question: How did the present English language grow? 



6 


Ivan hoe 


nation considers them as the paths to yet wilder 
scenes of sylvan solitude. Here the red rays of the 
sun shot a broken and discolored light, that parti¬ 
ally hung upon the shattered boughs and mossy 
trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in 
brilliant patches the portions of turf to which they 
made their way. A considerable open space, in the 
midst of this glade, seemed formerly to have been 
dedicated to the rites of Druidical superstition 1 ; 
for, on the summit of a hillock, so regularly as to 
seem artificial, there .still remained part of a circle 
of rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions. 
Seven stood upright; the rest had been dislodged 
from their places, probably by the zeal of some con¬ 
vert of Christianity, and lay, some prostrate near 
their former site, and others on the side of the hill. 
One large stone only had found its way to the bot¬ 
tom, and in stopping the course of a small brook, 
which glided smoothly round the foot of the emin¬ 
ence, gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of mur¬ 
mur to the placid and elsewhere silent streamlet. 

The human figures which completed this land¬ 
scape, were in number two, partaking, in their dress 
and appearance, of that wild and rustic character, 
which belonged to the woodlands of the West-Rid¬ 
ing 2 of Yorkshire at that early period. The elder of 
these men had a stern, savage, and wild aspect. His 
garment was of the simplest form imaginable, being 

Hn the great open spaces altars were erected for wor¬ 
ship by the Druids, the priests of the ancient Britons or 
Celts in Gaul, Britain, and Ireland. The Druids not only 
had charge of matters of religion but held offices of judi¬ 
cial character. 

2 One of the three divisions of the county of York, North 
Riding, East-Riding, and West-Riding. 

Question: How does the paragraph beginning on this 
page connect the preceding paragraphs to those following? 




IVANHOE 


7 


a close jacket with sleeves, composed of the tanned 
skin of some animal, on which the hair had been 
originally left, but which had been worn oit in so 
many places, that it would have been difficult to dis¬ 
tinguish from the patches that remained, to what 
creature the fur had belonged. This primeval vest¬ 
ment reached from the throat to the knees, and 
served at once all the usual purposes of body-cloth¬ 
ing; there was no wider opening at the collar, than 
was necessary to admit the passage of the head, 
from which it may be inferred, that it was put on by 
slipping it over the head and shoulders, in the man¬ 
ner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk. 1 Sandals, 
bound with thongs made of boar’s hide, protected 
the feet, and a roll of thin leather was twined arti¬ 
ficially round the legs, and, ascending above the 
calf, left the knees bare, like those of a Scottish 
Highlander. To make the jacket sit yet more close 
to the body, it was gathered at the middle by a 
broad leathern belt, secured by a brass buckle, to 
one side of which was attached a sort of scrip, and 
to the other a ram’s horn, accoutered with a mouth¬ 
piece, for the purpose of blowing. In the same belt 
was stuck one of those long, broad, sharp-pointed, 
and two-edged knives, with a buck’s horn handle, 
which were fabricated in the neighborhood, and 
bore even at this early period the name of a Sheffield 
whittle. The man had no covering upon his head, 
which was only defended by his own thick hair, 
matted and twisted together, and scorched by the 
influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red color, 

1 A coat of mail formed of interwoven steel rings, that 
reached as far as the knees, being cut in the front and 
in the hack for convenience in riding. Sleeves ran a 
little below the elbow. 

Question : What color hair did Gurth have? 



8 


1VANH0E 


forming a contrast with the overgrown beard upon 
his cheeks, which was rather of a yellow or amber 
hue. One part of his drec,s only remains, but it is 
too remarkable to be suppressed; it was a brass 
ring, resembling a dog’s collar, but without any 
opening, and soldered fast round his neck, so loose 
as to form no impediment to his breathing, yet so 
tight as to be incapable of being removed, excepting 
by the use of the file. On this singular gorget was 
engraved, in Saxon characters, an inscription of 
the following purport:—“Gurth, the son of Beowulph, 
is the born thrall of Cedric 1 of Rotherwood.” 

Beside the swineherd, for such was Gurth’s oc¬ 
cupation, was seated, upon one of the fallen Druidi- 
cal monuments, a person about ten years younger in 
appearance, and whose dress, though resembling hi* 
companion’s in form, was of better materials, and of 
a more fantastic appearance. His jacket had been 
stained of a bright purple hue, upon which there 
had been some attempt to paint grotesque orna¬ 
ments in different colors. To the jacket he added a 
short cloak, which scarcely reached half-way down 
his thigh. It was of crimson cloth, though a good 
deal soiled, lined with bright yellow; and as he 
could transfer it from one shoulder to the other, or 
at his pleasure draw it all around him, its width, 
contrasted with its want of longitude, formed a 
fantastic piece of drapery. He had thin silver 
bracelets upon his arms, and on his neck a collar 
of the same metal, bearing the inscription, “Wamba, 
the son of Witless, is the thrall of Cedric of Rother¬ 
wood”. This personage had the same sort of sand¬ 
als with his companion, but instead of the roll of 
leather thong, his legs were cased in a sort of gait- 

1 The Saxon form of the name was properly Cerdic but 
Scott chose the name Cedric. 



IVANHOE 


9 


ers, of which one was red and the other yellow. He 
was provided also with a cap, having around it more 
than one bell, about the size of those attached to 
hawks, which jingled as he turned his head to one 
side or the other; and as he seldom remained a 
minute in the same posture, the sound might be con¬ 
sidered as incessant. Around the edge of this cap 
was a stiff bandeau of leather, cut at the top into 
open work, resembling a coronet, while a prolonged 
bag arose from within it; and fell down on one 
shoulder like an old-fashioned nightcap, or a jelly- 
bag, or the head-gear of a modern hussar. It was 
to this part of the cap that the bells were attached; 
which circumstance, as well as the shape of his 
head-dress, and his own half-crazed, half-cunning 
] expression of countenance, sufficiently pointed him 
j out as belonging to the race of domestic clowns or 
jesters, maintained in the houses of the wealthy, to 
i help away the tedium of those lingering hours winch 
they were obliged to spend within doors. He bore, 
like his companion, a scrip attached to his belt, but 
had neither horn nor knife, being probably consid- 
I ered as belonging to a class whom it is esteemed 
I dangerous to intrust with edge-tools. In place of 
these, he was equipped with a sword of lath, 1 re¬ 
sembling that with which Harlequin operates his 
wonders upon the modern stage. 

The outward appearance of these two men formed 
scarce a stronger contrast than their looks and 
i demeanor. That of the serf, or bondsman, was sad 
and sullen; his aspect was bent on the ground with 
! an air of deep dejection, which might be almost con¬ 
strued into apathy, had not the fire which occasion- 
i ally sparkled in his red eye manifested that there 

Similar to the dagger of lath carried in the old miracle 
and moral plays by Vice. 






10 


Ivan hoe 


slumbered, under the appearance of sullen despon¬ 
dency, a sense of oppression, and a disposition to 
resistance. The looks of Wamba, on the otner hand, 
indicated, as usual with his class, a sort of vacant 
curiosity, and fidgety impatience of any posture of 
repose, together with the utmost self-satisfaction 
respecting his own situation, and the appearance 
which he made. The dialogue which they main¬ 
tained between them, was carried on in Anglo- 
Saxon, which, as we have said before, was univer¬ 
sally spoken by the inferior classes, excepting the 
Norman soldiers and the immediate personal depen¬ 
dents of the great feudal nobles. But to give their 
conversation in the original would convey but little 
information to the modern reader, for whose benefit 
we beg to offer the following translation: 

“The curse of St. Withold 1 upon these infernal 
porkers!” said the swineherd, after blowing his 
horn obstreperously, to collect together the scat¬ 
tered herd of swine, which, answering his call with 
notes equally melodious, made, however, no haste to 
remove themselves from the luxurious banquet of 
beech-mast and acorns on which they had fattened, 
or to forsake the marshy banks of the rivulet, where 
several of them, half plunged in mud, lay stretched 
at their ease, altogether regardless of the voice of 
their keeper. “The curse of St. Withold upon them 
and upon me!” said Gurth; “if the two-legged wold 2 3 
snap not up some of them ere nightfall, I am no true 
man 8 . Here, Fangs! Fangs!” he ejaculated at the 
top of his voice to a ragged, wolfish-looking dog, a 
sort of lurcher, half mastiff, half greyhound, which 

1 An imaginary Saxon saint. See Edgar’s song in King 
Lear, III, 4, 125. 

2 The outlaw was supposed to bear a wolf’s head. 

3 Opposite of thief. 



IVANHOE 


11 


ran limping about as if with the purpose of second¬ 
ing his master in collecting the refractory grunters; 
but which, in fact, from misapprehension of the 
swineherd’s signals, ignorance of his own duty, or 
malice prepense, only drove them hither and thither, 
and increased the evil which he seemed to design to 
remedy. “A devil draw the teeth of him,” said 
Gurth, “and the mother of mischief confound the 
Ranger of the forest, * 1 that cuts the foreclaws off our 
idogs, and makes them unfit for their trade! Wam- 
| ba, up and help me an thou beest a man; take a turn 
]round the back o’ the hill to gain the wind on them; 
and when thou’st got the weather-gage, 2 thou mayst 
drive them before thee as gently as so many inno¬ 
cent lambs.” 

“Truly,” .said Wamba, without stirring from the 
| spot, “I have consulted my legs upon this matter, 
and they are altogether of opinion, that to carry my 
gay garments through these sloughs, would be an 
act of unfriendship to my sovereign person and roy¬ 
al wardrobe; wherefore, Gurth, I advise thee to call 
off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny, 
which, whether they meet with bands of traveling 
soldiers, or of outlaws, or of wandering pilgrims, 
i can be little else than to be converted into Norman 
j before morning, to thy no small ease and comfort.” 

“The swine turn Normans to my comfort!” 
quoth Gurth, “expound that to me, Wamba, for my 
brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read 
riddles.” 

’The Forest Laws of the Norman conquerors, who were 
lovers of the chase, provided for the mutilating of the 
| shepherd dogs so that they could not chase the deer. The 

i three claws of the right foot were cut off in this lawing 
as it was called. (See appendix) 

Position of advantage, or “are to windward of', a nau- 
tical expression. 






12 


IVANHOE 


“Why,, how call you those grunting brutes run¬ 
ning about on their four legs?” demanded Wamba. 

“Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd; “every fool 
knows that.” 

“And swine is good Saxon,” said the Jester; “but 
how call you the sow when she is flayed, and drawn, 
and quartered, and hung up by the heels, like a 
traitor?” 

“Pork,” answered the swineherd. 

“I am very glad every fool knows that, too,” said 
Wamba; “and pork, I think, is good Norman- 
French; and so when the brute lives, and is in the 
charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon 
name; but becomes a Norman, and is called pork, 
when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast 
among the nobles. What dost thou think of this, 
friend Gurth, ha?” 

“It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, how¬ 
ever it got into thy fool’s pate.” 

“Nay, I can tell you more,” said Wamba, in the 
same tone, “there is old Alderman Ox continues to 
hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the charge 
of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes 
Beef, a fiery French gallant, when he arrives before 
the worshipful jaws that are destined to consume 
him. Mynheer Calf", too. becomes Monsieur de Veau * 2 
in the like manner; he is Saxon when he requires 
tendance, and takes a Norman name when he be¬ 
comes matter of enjoyment.” 

“By St. Dunstan,” 3 answered Gurth, “thou 


x Mr. Calf. 

2 Mr. Veal. 

3 Archbishop of Canterbury who lived 924-988. 

Question: Think of other words besides those that 
Wamba gives that show the distinction between the Nor¬ 
man and Saxon tongues. 




IVANHOE 


13 


speakest but sad truths; little is left to us but the 
air we breathe, and that appears to have been re¬ 
served with much hesitation, solely for the purpose 
of enabling us to endure the tasks they lay upon 
our shoulders. The finest and the fattest is for 
their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the 
best and bravest supply their foreign masters with 
| soldiers, and whiten distant lands with their bones, 

; leaving few here who have either will or the power 
to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God’s blessing on 
| our Master Cedric; he hath done the work of a man 
Sin standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-Bceuf 
! is coming down to this country in person, and we 
shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will avail 
him.—Here, here,” he exclaimed again, raising his 
j voice. “So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs! thou hast 
I them all before thee now, and bring’st them on 
bravely, lad.” 

“Gurth,” said the Jester, “I know thou thinkest me 
a fool, or thou wouldst not be so rash in putting 
thy head into my mouth. One word to Reginald 
| Front-de-Boeuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou 
hast spoken treason against the Norman,—and thou 
art but a castaway swineherd—thou wouldst waver 
on one of these trees as a terror to all evil speakers 
against dignities.” 

“Dog, thou wouldst not betray me,” said Gurth, 
“after having led me on to speak so much at dis¬ 
advantage?” 

“Betray thee!” answered the Jester; “no, that 
were the trick of a wise man; a fool cannot half so 
j well' help himself.-—But soft, whom have we here?” 

he said, listening to the trampling of several horses 
' which became then audible. 

“Never mind whom,” answered Gurth, who had 
I now got his herd before him, and, with the aid of 



14 


Ivan hoe 


Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim 
vistas which we have endeavored to describe. 

“Nay, but I must see the riders,” answered 
Wamba; “perhaps they are come from Fairyland 
with a message from King Oberon .” 1 

“A murrain take thee,” rejoined the swineherd; 
“wilt thou talk of such things, while a terrible 
storm of thunder and lightning is raging within a 
few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! 
and for summer rain, I never saw such broad down¬ 
right flat drops fall out of the clouds; the oaks, too, 
notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak 
with their great boughs as if announcing a tempest. 
Thou canst play the rational if thou wilt; credit me 
for once, and let us home ere the storm begins to 
rage, for the night will be fearful.” 

Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal, 
and accompanied his companion, who began his 
journey after catching up a long quarter-staff which 
lay upon the grass beside him. This second Eu- 
maeus" strode hastily down the forest glade, driving 
before him, with the assistance of Fangs, the whole 
herd of his inharmonious charge. 


Hving* of the fairies. Titania was his wife. See Shakes¬ 
peare’s Midsummer Night's Dream . 

2 The swineherd of Ulysses in Homer's The Odyssey. 
Question : How are you prepared for new characters in 

the next chapter? 




CHAPTER II 


A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie, 

An outrider who loved venerie 
A manly man, to he an Abbot able, 

Full many a dainty horse had he in stable: 

And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear 
Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear, 

And eke as loud, as doth the cliapeil bell, 

There as this lord was keeper of the cell. 

Chaucer. 

Notwithstanding the occasional exhortation and 
childing of his companion, the noise of the horse¬ 
men’s feet continuing to approach, Wamba could not 
be prevented from lingering occasionally on the 
road, upon every pretense which occurred; now 
catching from the hazel a cluster of half-ripe nuts, 
iand now turning his head to leer after a cottage 
imaiden who crossed their path. The horsemen, 
itherefore, soon overtook them on the road. 

Their numbers amounted to ten men, of whom 
the two who rode foremost seemed to be persons of 
j considerable importance, and the others their attend¬ 
ants. It was not difficult to ascertain the condition 
and character of one of these personages. He was 
'obviously an ecclesiastic of high rank; his dress 
was that of a Cistercian Monk , 1 but composed of ma¬ 
terials much finer than those which the rule of that 
order admitted- His mantle and hood were of the 
Ibest Flanders cloth, and fell in ample, and not un¬ 
igraceful folds, around a handsome, though some¬ 
what corpulent person. His countenance bore as 
little the marks of self-denial, as his habit indicated 

^One of the monastic order founded as a stricter branch 
of the Benedictines in 109§ at Citeaux (Cistercium, “the 

cisterns”) in France* 




16 


IVANHOE 


contempt of worldly splendor. His features might 
have been called good, had there not lurked under 
the pent-house 1 2 of his eye, that sly epicurean" twin¬ 
kle which indicates the cautious voluptuary. In 
other respects, his profession and situation had 
taught him a ready command over his countenance, 
which he. could contract at pleasure into solemnity, 
although its natural expression was that of good- 
humored social indulgence. In defiance of convent¬ 
ual rules, and the edicts of popes and councils, the 
sleeves of this dignitary were lined and turned up 
with rich furs, his mantle secured at the throat 
with a golden clasp, and the whole dress proper to 
his order as much refined upon and ornamented, as 
that of a Quaker beauty of the present day, who, 
while she retains the garb and costume of her sect, 
continues to give to its simplicity, by the choice of 
materials and the mode of disposing them, a cer¬ 
tain air of coquettish attraction, savoring but too 
much of the vanities of the world. 

This worthy churchman rode upon a well-fed 
ambling mule, whose furniture was highly deco¬ 
rated. and whose bridle, according to the fashion 
of the day, was ornamented with silver bells. Tn 
his seat he had nothing of the awkardness of the 
convent, but displayed the easy and habitual grace 
of a well-trained horseman. Indeed, it eemed that 
so humble a conveyance as a mule, in however good 
case, and however well broken to a pleasant and ac¬ 
commodating amble, was only used by the gallant 
monk for traveling on the road. A lay brother , 3 one 

^‘Sloping roof.” The monk had overshadowing brows. ■ 

2 Refers to the philosophy of Epicurus who advocated 
pleasure, especially eatingg and drinking, as the chief aim 
of life. 

3 One who has not taken hoiy orders but who serves in the 
monastery under the same vows as the priest. 








Ivan hoe 


17 


of those who followed in the train, had, for his use 
on other occasions, one of the most handsome Span¬ 
ish jennets 1 ever bred at Andalusia , 2 which mer¬ 
chants used at that time to import, with great 
trouble and risk, for the use of persons of wealth 
and distinction. The saddle and housings of this 
superb palfrey were covered by a long foot-cloth, 
which reached nearly to the ground, and on which 
- where richly embroidered miters, crosses, and other 
i ecclesiastical emblems. Another lay brother led a 
sumpter mule, loaded probably with his superior’s 
baggage; and two monks of hisDwn order, of inferi¬ 
or station, rode together in the rear, laughing and 
conversing with each other, without taking much 
notice of the other members of the cavalcade. 

The companion of the church dignitary was a man 
past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular; an ath¬ 
letic figure, which long fatigue and constant exer- 
| cise seemed to have left none of the softer part of 
the human form, having reduced the whole to brawn, 
bones, and sinews, which had sustained a thousand 
toils, and were ready to dare a thousand more. His 
head was covered with a scarlet cap, faced with fur 
—of that kind which the French call mortier , 3 from 
its resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar. 
His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and 
its expression was calculated to impress a degree 
of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers. High fea¬ 
tures, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, 
had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by con¬ 
stant exposure to the tropical sun, and might, in 
their ordinary state, be said to slumber after the 
storm of passion had passed away; but the projec- 


*A small Spanish saddle horse. 

2 A division of Southern Spain. 

8 A high round cap with projecting crown* 




18 


IVANHOE 


tion of the veins of the forehead, the readiness with 
which the upper lip and its thick black mustaches 
quivered upon the slightest emotion, plainly inti¬ 
mated that the tempest might be again and easily 
awakened. His keen, piercing, dark eyes told in 
every glance a history of difficulties subdued, and 
clangers dared, and seemed to challenge opposition , 
to his wishes, for the pleasure of sweeping it from 
his road by a determined exertion of courage and \ 
of will; a deep scar on his brow gave additional j 
sternness to his countenance, and a sinister expres-1 
sion to one of his eyes, which had been slightly in¬ 
jured on the same occasion, and of which the vision 
though perfect, was in a slight and partial degree j 
distorted. 

The upper dress of this personage resembled that 
of his companion in shape, being a long monastic; 
mantle; but the color, being scarlet, showed that he 
did not belong to any of the four regular orders of 
monks. 1 On the right shoulder of the mantle there 
was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a peculiar form.! 
This upper robe concealed what at first view seemed 
rather inconsistent with its form, a shirt, namely, of 
linked mail, with sleeves and gloves of the same, 
curiously plaited and interwoven, as flexible to the 
body a^ those which are now wrought in the stock¬ 
ing-loom, out of less obdurate materials. The fore¬ 
part of his thighs, where the folds of his mantle 
permitted them to be seen, were also covered with 
linked mail; the knees and feet were defended by 
splints, or thin plates of steel, ingeniously jointed 
upon each other; and mail hose, reaching from the 

■'Probably the four orders of friars though they were not 
established until after Richard’s time. They were: Fran¬ 
ciscans, or grey friars; Carmelites, or white friars; Au- 

gustinians, or black friars; and Dominicans, or black friars. 

B 





IVANHOE 


19 


ankle to the knee, effectually protected the legs, and 
completed the rider’s defensive armor. In his girdle 
he wore a long and double-edged dagger, which was 
the only offensive weapon about his person. 

He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a 
strong hackney for the road, to save his gallant war- 
horse, which a squire led behind, fully accoutered 
for battle, with a chamfron or plaited head-piece 
upon his head, having a short spike projecting from 
the front. On one side of the saddle hung a short 
battle-ax, richly inlaid with Damascene 1 2 carving; on 
the other the rider’s plumed head-piece and hood of 
mail, with a long two-handed sword, used by the 
chivalry of the period. A second squire held aloft 
nis master’s lance, from the extremity of which flut¬ 
tered a small banderole, or streamer, bearing a cross 
of the same form with that embroidered upon his 
cloak. He also carried his small triangular shield, 
broad enough at the top to protect the breast, and 
from thence diminishing to a point. It was covered 
with a scarlet cloth, which prevented the device - ' 
from being seen. 

These two squires were followed by two atten¬ 
dants, whose dark visages, white turbans, and the 
Oriental form of their garments, showed them to be 
natives of some distant Eastern country. The whole 
appearance of this warrior and his retinue was wild 
and outlandish; the dress of his squires was gor¬ 
geous, and his Eastern attendants 3 wore silver col¬ 
lars round their throats, and bracelets of the same 


Damascus was famous for its swords and ornamenta¬ 
tion in iron and steel. 

2 The motto or distinctive badge on the shield. 

3 Scott says that it would have been natural for the Temp¬ 
lars to have brought back slaves from the East; at least 
there is no proof against it. (See appendix) 





20 


IVANHOE 


metal upon their swarthy arms and legs, of which 
the former were naked from the elbow, and the lat¬ 
ter from mid-leg to ankle. Silk and embroidery dis¬ 
tinguished their dresses, and marked the wealth and 
importance of their master; forming, at the same 
time, a striking contrast with the martial simplicity 
of his own attire. They were armed with crooked 
sabers, having the hilt and baldric 1 inlaid with gold, 
and matched with Turkish daggers of yet more 
costly workmanship. Each of them bore at his 
•saddle-bow a bundle of darts or javelins, about four 
feet in length, having sharp steel heads, a weapon 
much in use among the Saracens, 2 and of which the 
memory is yet preserved in the martial exercise 
called El Jerrid, 3 still practiced in the Eastern coun¬ 
tries. 

The steeds of these attendants were in appear¬ 
ance as foreign as their riders. They were of Sara¬ 
cen origin, and consequently of Arabian descent; 
and their fine slender limbs, small fetlocks, thin 
manes, and easy springy motion, formed a marked 
contrast with the large-jointed heavy horses, of 
which the race was cultivated in Flanders and in 
Normandy, for mounting the men-at-arms of the 
period in all the panoply of plate and mail; and 
which, placed by the side of those Eastern coursers, 
might have passed for a personification of substance 
and of shadow. 

The singular appearance of this cavalcade not 


*A belt crossing the shoulder and breast diagonally used 
to support the weapon. 

2 Fierce enemies of the Holy Roman Empire, especially 
of the crusaders. They were members of one of the no- 
madic tribes of the Syro-Arabian desert, and were Moham¬ 
medans. 

8 A military exercise or sham battle with a short javelin. 



IVANHOE 


21 


only attracted the curiosity of Wamba, but excited 
even that of his less volatile companion. The monk 
he instantly knew to be the Prior' of Jorvaulx Ab¬ 
bey," well known for many miles around as a lover 
of the chase, of the banquet, and, if fame did him 
not wrong, of other wordly pleasures still more in¬ 
consistent with his monastic vows. 

Yet so loose were the ideas of tne times respecting 
the conduct of the clergy, whether secular or reg¬ 
ular, that the Prior Aymer maintained a fair char¬ 
acter in the neighborhood of his abbey. His free 
and jovial temper, and the readiness with which he 
granted absolution from all ordinary delinquencies, 
rendered him a favorite among the nobility and prin¬ 
cipal gentry, to several of whom he was allied by 
birth, being of a distinguished Norman family. 
The ladies, in particular, were not disposed to scan 
too nicely the morals of a man who was a professed 
admirer of their sex, and who possessed many means 
of dispelling the ennui which was too apt to intrude 
upon the halls and bowers of an ancient feudal cas- 
j tie. The Prior mingled in the sports of the field 
I with more than due eagerness, and was allowed to 
possess the best-trained hawks and the fleetest grey¬ 
hounds in the North Riding, circumstances which 
strongly recommended him to the youthful gentry. 
With the old, he had another part to play, which, 
when needful, he could sustain with great decorum. * 
His knowledge of books, however superficial, was 


*Next in rank to the abbott. Aymer was called both Prior 
and Abbot, without distinction between the head of an 
Abbey and the head of Priory. 

2 This Cistercian Abbey was in the valley of the river 
Jore or Ure in North Riding of Yorkshire. 

Question : How many different classes of people liked 
the Prior? 




22 


IVANHOE 


sufficient to impress upon their ignorance respect 
for his supposed learning; and the gravity of his 
deportment and language, with the high tone wnich 
he exerted in setting forth the authority of the 
church and of the priesthood, impressed them no less 
with an opinion of his sanctity. Even the com¬ 
mon people, the severest critics of the conduct of 
their betters, had commiseration with the follies of 
Prior Aymer. He was generous; and charity, as 
it is well known, covereth a multitude of sins, 1 in an¬ 
other sense than that in which it is said to do so 
in Scripture. The revenues of the monastery, of 
which a large part was at his disposal, while they 
gave him the means of supplying his own very con¬ 
siderable expenses, afforded also those largesses 
which he bestowed among the peasantry, and with 
which he frequently relieved the distresses of the 
oppressed. If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, 
or remained long at the banquet,—if Prior Aymer 
was seen, at the early peep of dawn, to enter the 
postern of the abbey, as he glided home from some 
rendezvous which had occupied the hours of dark¬ 
ness, men only shrugged up their shoulders, and rec¬ 
onciled themselves to his irregularities, by recollect¬ 
ing that the same were practiced by many of his 
brethren who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever 
to atone for them. Prior Aymer, therefore, and his 
•character, were well known to our Saxon serfs, who 
made their rude obeisance and received his “bene- 
dicte mes fils,” 2 in return. 

But the singular appearance of his companion 
and his attendants, arrested their attention and ex¬ 
cited their wonder, and they could scarcely attend to 
the Prior of Jorvaulx’ question, when he demanded 


"Peter IV. S. charity—love. 
2 Bless you, my sons. 



IVANHOE 


23 


if they knew of any place of harborage in the vicin¬ 
ity; so much were they surprised at the half mon¬ 
astic, half military appearance of the swarthy stran¬ 
ger, and at the uncouth dress and arms of his East¬ 
ern attendants. It is probable, too, that the lan¬ 
guage in which the benediction was conferred, and 
the information asked, sounded ungracious, though 
not probably unintelligible, in the ears of the Saxon 
peasants. 

“I asked you, my children/’ said the Prior, rais¬ 
ing his voice, and using the lingua Franca, or mixed 
language, in which the iNiorman and Saxon races 
conversed with each other, “if there be in this neigh¬ 
borhood any good man, who, for the love of God, 
and devotion to Mother Church, will give two of 
( her humblest servants, with their train, a night’s 
! hospitality and refreshment?” 

This he spoke with a tone of conscious impor¬ 
tance, which formed a strong contrast to the modest 
terms which he thought it proper to employ. 

“Two of the humblest servants of Mother 
Church!” repeated Wamba to himself,—but, fool as 
he was, taking care not to make his observation 
audible; “I should like to see her seneschals, her 
chief butlers, and her other principal domestics!” 

After this internal commentary on the Prior's 
speech, he raised his eyes, and replied to the ques¬ 
tion which had been put. 

“If the reverend fathers,” he said, “loved good 
| cheer and soft lodging, few miles of riding would 
| carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth, where their 
! quality could not but secure them the most honor¬ 
able reception; or if they preferred spending a 
penitential evening; they might turn down yonder 
wild glade, which would bring them to the hermit¬ 
age of Copmanhurst, where a pious anchoret would 




24 


IVANHOE 


make them sharers for the night of the shelter of 
his roof and the benefit of his prayers.” 

The Prior shook his head at both proposals. 

“Mine honest friend,” said he, “if the jangling 
of thy bells had not dizzied thine understanding, 
thou mightst know Clericus clericum non decimat; 
that is to say, we churchmen do not exhaust each 
other’s hospitality, but rather require that of the 
laity; giving them thus an opportunity to serve God 
in honoring and relieving his appointed servants.” 

“It is true,” replied Wamba, “that I, being but 
an ass, am, nevertheless, honored to bear the bells 
as well as your reverence’s mule; notwithstanding, I 
did conceive that the charity of Mother Church and 
her servants might be said, with other charity, to 
begin at home.” 

“A truce to thine insolence, fellow,” said the 
armed rider, breaking in on his prattle with a high 
and stern voice, “and tell us, if thou canst, the 

road to- How call’d you your Franklin, Prior 

Aymer?” 

“Cedric,” answered the Prior; “Cedric the Saxon. 
—Tell me, good fellow, are we near his dwelling, 
and can you show us the road?” 

“The road will be uneasy to find,” answered 
Gurth, who broke silence for the first time, “and the 
family of Cedric retire early to rest.” 

“Tush, tell 'not me, fellow!” said the military 
rider; “’tis easy for them to arise and supply the 
wants of travelers such as we are, who will not 
stoop to beg the hospitality which we have a right 
to command.” 

“I know not,” said Gurth, sullenly, “if I should 
show the way to my master’s house, to those who 
demand as a right, the shelter which most are fain 
to ask as a favor.” 




IVANHOE 


25 


“Do you dispute with me, slave!” said the soldier; 
and, setting spurs to his horse, he caused him to 
make a demivolte 1 across the path, raising at the 
same time the guiding rod which he held in his hand, 
with a purpose of chastising what he considered as 
the insolence of the peasant. 

Gurth darted at him a savage and revengeful 
scowl, and with a fierce, yet hesitating motion, laid 
his hand on the haft of his knife; but the inter¬ 
ference of Prior Aymer, who pushed his mule be¬ 
twixt his companion and the swineherd, prevented 
the meditated violence. 

“Nay, by St. Mary, brother Brian, you must not 
think you are now in Palestine, predominating over 
heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we islanders 
love not blows, save those of holy Church, who 
j chasteneth whom she loveth.—Tell me, good fellow,” 

| said he to Wamba, and seconded his speech by a 
j small piece of silver coin, “the way to Cedric the 
j Saxon’s; you cannot be ignorant of it, and it is your 
i duty to direct the wanderer even when his character 
I is less sanctified than ours.” 

“In truth, venerable father,” answered the Jes¬ 
ter, “the Saracen head of your right reverend com¬ 
panion has frightened out of mine the way home— 
I am not sure I shall get there to-night myself.” 

“Tush,” said the Abbot, “thou canst tell us if 
thou wilt. This reverend brother has been all his 
life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the 
recovery of the Holy Sepulcher, 2 he is of the order 


1 A half-turn with the fore-legs raised from the ground. 

2 A11 the Christian world was aglow with religious fervor 
to wrest the Holy Land from the Mohammedans. Military 
expeditions known as the Crusades were made for that 
purpose. In the First Crusade 1096-1099 Jerusalem was 
taken. The Mohammedans took it again in the Third Cru- 



26 


Ivan hoe 


of Knights Templars 1 whom you may have heard of; 
he is half a monk, half a soldier.” 

“If he is but half a monk,” said the Jester, “he 
should not be wholly unreasonable with those whom 
he meets upon the road, even if they should be in 
no hurry to answer questions that no way concern 
them.” 

“I forgive thy wit,” replied the Abbot, “on con¬ 
dition thou wilt show me the way to Cedric’s man¬ 
sion.” 

“Well, then,” answered Wamba, “your reverences 
must hold on this path till you come to a sunken 
cross, of which scarce a cubit’s length remains above 
ground; then take the path to the left, for there 
are four which meet at Sunken Cross, and I trust 
your reverences will obtain shelter before the storm 
comes on.” 

The Abbot thanked (his sage adviser; and the 
cavalcade, setting spurs to their horses, rode on as 
men do who wish to reach their inn before the burst¬ 
ing of a night-storm. As their horses’ hoofs died 
away, Gurth said to his companion, “If they follow 
thy wise direction, the reverend fathers will hardly 
reach Rotherwood this night.” 

“No,” said the Jester, grinning, “but they may 
reach Sheffield if they have good luck, and that is as 
fit a place for them. I am not so bad a woodsman as 
to show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no 
mind he should chase him.” 

“Thou art right,” said Gurth; “it were ill that 
Aymer saw the Lady Rowena; and it were worse, it 
sade. Richard, the Lion Heart of England was one of the 
three leaders. 

X A military order founded in Jerusalem early in the 
twelfth century to protect pilgrims to Jerusalem and to 
protect the Holy Sepulcher. Their influence and wealth 
spread in years. 




IVANHOE 


27 


may be, for Cedric to quarrel, as is most likely he 
would, with this military monk. But, like good 
servants, let us hear and see, and say nothing/ 

We return to the riders, who had soon left the 
bondsmen far behind them, and who maintained the 
following conversation in the Norman-French lan¬ 
guage, usually employed by the superior classes, 
with che exception of the few who were still inclined 
to boast their Saxon descent. 

“What mean these fellows by their capricious in¬ 
solence?” said the Templar to the Cistercian, “and 
why did you prevent me from chastising it?” 

“Marry, * 1 brother Brian,” replied the Prior, “touch¬ 
ing the one of them, it were hard for me to render 
a reason for a fool speaking according to his folly; 
and the other churl is of that savage, fierce, in¬ 
tractable race, some of whom, as I have often told 
you, are still to be found among the descendants of 
the conquered Saxons, and whose supreme pleasure 
it is to Testify, by all means in their power, their 
aversion to their conquerors.” 

“I would soon have beat him into courtesy,” ob¬ 
served Brian; “I am accustomed to deal with such 
spirits. Our Turkish captives are as fierce and in¬ 
tractable as Odin* himself could have been; yet two 
months in my household under the management of 
my master of the slaves, has made them humble, 
submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. 
Marry, sir, you must beware of the poison and the 
dagger; for they use either with free will when 
you give them the slightest opportunity.” 

“Ay, but,” answered Prior Aymer, “every land 
has its own manners and fashions; and, besides that. 


'An exclamation, abbreviation of Mary or St. Mary re¬ 
ferring to the Blessed Virgin. 

I 2 Chief God of Teutons, according to a Norse myth. 



28 


IVANHOE 


beating this fellow could procure us no information 
respecting the road to Cedric’s house, it would have 
been sure to have established a quarrel betwixt you 
and him had we found our way thither. Remember 
what I told you; this wealthy Franklin is proud, 
fierce, jealous, and irritable; a withstander of the 
nobility, and even of his neighbors, Reginald Front- 
de-Boeuf, and Philip Malvoisin, who are no babes 
to strive with. He stands up so sternly for the priv¬ 
ileges of his race, and is so proud of his uninter¬ 
rupted descent from Hereward, 1 a renowned cham¬ 
pion of the Heptarchy, 2 that he is universally called 
Cedric the Saxon; and makes a boast of his belong¬ 
ing to a people from whom many others endeavor to 
hide their descent, lest they should encounter a 
share of the vae victis, 3 or severities imposed upon 
the vanquished.” 

“Prior Aymer,” said the Templar, “you are a 
man of gallantry, learned in the study of beauty, 
and as expert as a troubadour in all matters con¬ 
cerning che arrets of love; but I shall expect much 
beauty in this celebrated Rowena, to counterbalance 
the self-denial and forbearance which I must exert, 
if I am to court the favor of such a seditious churl 
as you have described her father Cedric.” 

“Cedric is not her father,” replied the Prior, 
“and is but of remote relation; she is descended 
from higher blood than even he pretends to, and is 

3 One of the Saxon warriors who continued to wage war 
against William and the Normans after the Conquest. 

"'Seven Saxon states established in early England, Essex, 
Sussex, Wassex, East Angilo, Northumbria, Kent, Mercia. 
Hereward died in the eleventh century and the Heptarchy 
ended in the ninth. This is either an anachronism in the 
story or the Prior was to be represented as ignorant of 
history. 

3 Woe to the conquered. 




IVANHOE 


29 


but distantly connected with him by birth. Hef 
guardian, however, he is, self-constituted as I be¬ 
lieve; but his ward is as dear to him as if she were 
his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be 
judge; and if the purity of her complexion, and the 
majestic yet soft expression of a mild blue eye, do 
not chase from your memory the black-tressed girls 
of Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound’s 
paradise, I am an infidel, and no true son of the 
church.” 

“Should your boasted beauty,” said the Templar, 
“be weighed in the balance and found wanting, you 
known our wager?” 

“My gold collar,” answered the Prior, “against 
[ten butts of Chian 1 wine;—they are mine as securely 
as if they were already in the convent vaults, under 
the key of old Dennis the cellarer.” 

“And I am myself to be judge,” said the Templar, 
“and I am only to be convicted on my own admis¬ 
sion, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful since 
Pentecost 2 was a twelve-month. Ran it not so?— 
Prior, your collar is in danger; I will wear it over 
my gorget in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche.” 3 

“Win it fairly,” said the Prior, “and wear it as 
ye will; I will trust your giving true response, on 
your word as a knight and as a churchman. Yet, 
brother, take my advice, and file your tongue to a 
little more courtesy than your habits of predominat¬ 
ing over infidel captives and Eastern bondsmen 
have accustomed you. Cedric the Saxon, if offended, 
—and ne is no way slack in taking offense,—is a 
man who, without respect to your knighthood, my 

i- 

i *A Greek wine. 

2 A festival fifty days after Easter, in celebration of the 
descent of the Holy Ghost upon the Apostles. 

3 A town in Leicester County, England. 






30 


IVANHOE 


high office, or the sanctity of either, would clear his 
house of us, and send us to lodge with the larks, 
thougn the hour were midnight. And be careful 
how you look on Rowena, whom he cherishes with 
the most"jealous care; an 1 he take the least alarm 
in that quarter we are but lost men. It said he 
banished his only son from his family for lifting 
his eyes in the way of affection towards this beauty 
who may be worshiped, it seems, at a distance, but 
is not to be approached with other thought thar 
such as we bring to the shrine of the Blessed Vir 
gin.” 

“Well, you have said enough,” answered the 
Templar; “I will for a night put on the needful re 
straint, and deport me as meekly as a maiden; bu 
as for the fear of his expelling us by violence, my 
self and squires, with Harriet and Abc^alla, 3 wil 
warrant you against that disgrace. Doubt not tha 
we shall be strong enough to make good our quar 
ters.” 

“We must not let it come so far,” answered th 
Prior; "but here is the clown's sunken cross, am 
the night is so dark that we can hardly see whie'. 
of the roads we are to follow. He bid us turn, 
think, to the left.” 

“To the right,” said Brian, “to the best of m 
remembrance.” 

“To the left, certainly, the left; I remember hi 
pointing with his wooden sword.” 

“Ay, but he held his sword in his left hand, an 
so pointed across his body with it,” said the Temi 
lar. 

Each maintained his opinion with sufficient o! 

*And if. 

Two of the Templar’s Saracen slaves. I 

Question: What Is the wager made about Roweua? 

. 





IVANHOE 


31 


stinacy, as is usual in all such cases; the attendants 
were appealed to, but they had not been near 
enough to hear Wamba’s directions. At length Brian 
remarked, what had at first escaped him in the twi¬ 
light. “Here is some one either asleep, or lying 
dead at the foot of this cross—Hugo, stir him with 
the but-end of thy lance.” 

This was no sooner done than the figure arose, 
exclaiming in good French, “Whosoever thou art, it 
is discourteous in you to disturb my thoughts.” 

“We did but wish to ask you,” said the Prior, 
“the road to Rotherwood, the abode of Cedric the 
Saxon.” 

“I myself am bound thither,” replied the stran¬ 
ger; “and if I had a horse, I would be your guide, 
for the way is somewhat intricate, though perfectly 
well known to me.” 

“Thou shalt have both thanks and reward, my 
friend,” said the Prior, “if thou wilt bring us to 
Cedric’s in safety.” 

And he caused one of his attendants to mount his 
own led horse, and give that upon which he had 
hitherto ridden to the stranger, who was to serve 
for a guide. 

Their conductor pursued an opposite road from 
that which Wamba had recommended, for the pur¬ 
pose of misleading them. The path soon led deeper 
into the woodland, and crossed more than one brook, 

I the approach to which was rendered perilous by the 
marshes through which it flowed; but the stranger 
seemed to know, as if by instinct, the soundest 
ground and the safest points of passage; and by 
dint of caution and attention, brought the party safe¬ 
ly into a wider avenue than any they had yet seen'; 
and, pointing to a large, low, irregular building at 
the upper extremity, he said to the Prior, “Yonder 




32 


Ivan hoe 


is Rotherwood, the dwelling of Cedric the Saxon.” 

This was a joyful intimation to Aymer, whose 
nerves were none of the strongest, and who had 
suffered such agitation and alarm in the course of 
passing through the dangerous bogs, that he had not 
yet had the curiosity to ask his guide a single ques¬ 
tion. Finding himself now at his ease and near shel¬ 
ter, his curiosity began to awake, and he demanded 
of the guide who and what he was. 

“A Palmer, 1 just returned from the Holy Land,” 
was the answer. 

“You had better have tarried there to fight for 
the recovery of the Holy Sepulcher,” said the Tem¬ 
plar. 

“True, Reverend Sir Knight,” 2 answered the 
Palmer, to whom the appearance of the Templar 
seemed perfectly familiar; “but when those who are 
under oath to recover the holy city, are found travel¬ 
ing at such a distance from the scene of their duties, 
can you wonder that a peaceful peasant like me 
should decline the task which they have aban¬ 
doned?” 

The Templar would have made an angry reply, but 
was interrupted by the Prior, who again expressed 
his astonishment that their guide, after such long 
absence, should be iso perfectly acquainted with the 
passes of the forest. * 

“I was born a native of these parts,” answered 
their guide, and as he made the reply they stood 
before the mansion of Cedric;—a low, irregular 
building containing several courtyards or inclo^ures, 
extending over a considerable space of ground, and 


J A professional pilgrim to the Holy places of Jerusalem 
who brought home a palm branch as a token. 

2 The Templars were bound by oath to retake Jerusalem. 
Question : Do you guess now who the Palmer is? 





IVANHOE 


33 


which, though its size argued the inhabitant to be 
a person of wealth, differed entirely from the tall, 
turreted, and castellated buildings in which the Nor¬ 
man nobility resided, and which had become the 
universal style of architecture throughout England. 

Rotherwood was not, however, without defenses; 
no habitation, in that disturbed period, could have 
been so, without the risk of being plundered and 
burnt before the next morning. A deep fosse, or 
ditch, was drawn round the whole building, and 
filled with water from a neighboring stream. A 
double stockade, or palisade, composed of pointed 
beams, which the adjacent forest supplied, defended 
the outer and inner bank of the trench. There was 
an entrance from the west through the outer stock¬ 
ade, which communicated by a drawbridge, with a 
similar opening in the interior defenses. Some pre¬ 
cautions had been taken to place those entrances 
under the protection of projecting angles, by which 
they might be flanked in case of need by archers or 
slingers. 

Before this entrance the Templar wound 1 his horn 
loudly; for the rain, which had long threatened, be¬ 
gan now to descend with great violence. 


’Blew. (See dictionary.) 

Question : Why was Cedric impatient over the absence 
of Gurth and Wamba? 




CHAPTER III 


Then (sad relief!) from the bleak coast that hears 
The tierman Ocean roar, deep-booming, strong, 

And yellow-hair'd. the blue-eyed Saxon came. 

Thomson’s Liberty. 


In a hall, the height of which was greatly dispro- 
portioned to its extreme length and width, a long 
oaken table, formed of planks rough-hewn from the 
forest, and which had scarcely received any polish, 
stood ready prepared for the evening meal of Cedric 
the Saxon. The roof, composed of beams and raf¬ 
ters, had nothing to divide the apartment from the 
sky excepting the planking and thatch; there was a 
huge fireplace at either end of the hall, but, as the 
chimneys were constructed in a very clumsy man¬ 
ner, at least as much of the smoke found its way 
into the apartment as escaped by the proper vent. 
The constant vapor which this occasioned, had pol¬ 
ished the rafters and beams of the low-browed hall, 
by incrusting them with a black varnish of soot. On 
the side 3 of the apartment hung implements of war 
and of the chase, and there were at each corner 
folding doors, which gave access to other parts of 
the extensive building. 

The other appointments of the mansion partook of 
the rude simplicity of the Saxon period, which Ced¬ 
ric piqued himself upon maintaining. The floor was 
composed of earth mixed with lime, trodden into a 
hard substance, such as is often employed in flooring 
our modern barns. For about one quarter of the 
length of the apartment, the floor was raised by a 
step, and this space, which was called the dais, was 
occupied only by the principal members of the fam¬ 
ily, and visitors of distinction. For this purpose, 
a table richly covered with scarlet cloth was placed 


IVANHOE 


35 


transversely across the platform, from the middle of 
which ran the longer and lower board, at which the 
domestics and inferior persons fed, down towards 
the bottom of the hall. The whole resembled the 
form of the letter T, or some of those ancient dinner- 
tables, which, arranged on the same principles, may 
be still ''seen in the antique Colleges of Oxford or 
Cambridge. Massive chairs and .settles of carved 
oak were placed upon the dais, and over these seats 
and the more elevated table was fastened a canopy 
of cloth, which served in some degree to protect the 
dignitaries who occupied that distinguished station 
from the weather, and especially from the rain, 
which in some places found its way through the ill- 
constructed roof. 

The walls of this upper end of the hall, as far as 
the dais extended, were covered with hangings or 
curtains, and upon the ffoor there was a carpet, both 
of which were adorned with some attempts at tapes¬ 
try, or embroidery, executed with brilliant or rather 
gaudy coloring. 0(ver the lower range of table, the 
roof, as we have noticed, had no covering; the rough 
plastered walls were left bare, and the rude earthen 
floor was uncarpeted; the board was uncovered by a 
cloth, and rude massive benches supplied the place 
of chairs. 

In the center of the upper table were placed two 
chairs more elevated than the rest, for the master 
and mistress of the family, who presided over the 
scene of hospitality, and from doing so derived their 
Saxon title of honor, which signifies “the Dividers 
of Bread/’ 1 

To each of these chairs was added a footstool, 
curiously carved and inlaid with ivory, which mark 
of distinction was neculiar to them. One of these 


’Lord and Lady. 




36 


I VAN HOE 


seats was at present occupied by Cedric the Saxon, 
who, though but in rank a thane, or as the Normans 
called him, a Franklin, felt, at the delay of his even* 
ing meal, an irrita'ble impatience, which might have 
become an alderman whether of ancient or modern 
times. 

It appeared, indeed, from the countenance of this 
proprietor, that he was of a frank, but hasty and 
choleric temper. He was not above the middle stat¬ 
ure, but broad-shouldered, long-armed, and power¬ 
fully made, like one accustomed to endure the fatigue 
of war or of the chase; his face was broad, with 
large blue eyes, open and frank features, fine teeth, 
and a well-formed head, altogether expressive of 
that sort of good-humor which often lodges with a 
sudden and hasty temper. Pride and jealousy 
there was in his eye, for his life had been spent in 
asserting rights which were constantly liable to in¬ 
vasion; and the prompt, fiery, and resolute disposi¬ 
tion of the man, had been kept constantly upon the 
alert by the circumstances of his situation. His 
long yellow hair was equally divided on the top of 
his head and upon his brow, and combed down on 
each sicfd to the length of his shoulders; it had but 
little tendency to gray, although Cedric was approach¬ 
ing to his sixtieth year. 

His dress was a tunic of forest green, furred at 
the throat and cuffs with what was called minever; 
a kind of fur inferior in quality to ermine, and 
formed, it is believed, of the skin of the gray squir¬ 
rel. This doublet hung unbuttoned over a close 
dress of scarlet which sate tight to his body; he had 
breeches of the same, but they did not reach below 
the lower part of the thigh, leaving the knee ex- 

Tn ancient times a military chief; later he became a 
ruler of a province. 



IVANHOE 


37 


posed. His feet had sandals of the same fashion 
with the peasants, but of finer materials, and se¬ 
cured in the front with golden clasps. He had brace¬ 
lets of gold upon his arms, and a broad collar of the 
same precious metal around his neck. About his 
waist he wore a richly-studded belt, in which was 
stuck a short, straight, two-edged sword, with a 
sharp point, so disposed as to hang almost perpen¬ 
dicularly by his side. Behind his seat was hung a 
scarlet cloth cloak lined with fur, and a cap of the 
same materials richly embroidered, which completed 
the dress of the opulent landholder when he chose 
to go forth. A short boar-spear, with a broad and 
bright steel head, also reclined against the back 
of his chair, which served him, when he walked 
abroad, for the purposes of a staff or of a weapon, as 
chance might require. 

Several domestics, whose dress held various pro¬ 
portions betwixt the richness of their master’s, and 
the coarse and simple attire of Gurth the swineherd, 
watched the looks and waited the commands of the 
Saxon dignitary. Two or three servants of a super¬ 
ior order stood behind their master upon the dais; 
the re«t occupied the lower part of the hall. Other 
attendants there were of a different description; 
two or three large and 'shaggy greyhounds, such as 
were then employed in hunting the stag and wolf; 
as many slowhounds of a large bony breed, with 
thick necks, large heads, and long ears; and one or 
two of the smaller dogs, now called terriers, which 
waited with impatience the arrival of the supper: 
but, with the sagacious knowledge of physiognomy 
peculiar to their race, forebore to intrude upon the 
moody silence of their master, apprehensive probab¬ 
ly of a small white truncheon which lay by Cedric’s 
trencher, for the purpose of repelling the advances 






Ivan hoe 


38 

of his four-legged dependents. One grisly old wolf- 
dog alone, witli the liberty of an indulged favorite, 
had planted himself close by the chair of state, and 
occasionally ventured to solicit notice by putting his 
large, hairy head upon his master’s knee, or pushing 
his nose into his hand. Even he was repelled by the 
stern command “Down, Balder, down! I am not m 
the humor for foolery.” 

In fact, Cedric, as we have observed, was in no 
very placid state of mind. The lady Rowena, who 
had been absent to attend an evening mass at a 
distant church, had but just returned, and was 
changing her garments, which had been wetted by 
the storm. There were as yet no tidings of Gurth 
and his charge, which should long since have been 
driven home from the forest; and such was the in¬ 
security of the period, as to render it probable that 
the delay might be explained by some depredation 
of the outlaws, with whom the adjacent forest 
abounded, or by the violence of some neighboring 
baron, whose consciousness of strength made him 
equally negligent of the laws of property. The mat¬ 
ter was of consequence, for great part of the domes¬ 
tic wealth of the Saxon proprietors consijted in 
numerous herds of swine, especially in forest land, 
where those animals easily found their food. 

Besides these subjects of anxiety, the Saxon thane 
was impatient for the presence of his favorite clown 
Wamba, whose jests, such as they were, served for 
a sort of seasoning to his evening meal, and to the 
deep draughts of ale and wine with which he was 
in the habit of accompanying it. Add to all this, 
Cedric had fasted since noon, and his usual supper 
hour was long past, a cause of irritation common to 
country squires, both in ancient and modern times. 
His displeasure was expressed in broken sentences, 


Ivan hoe 


39 


1 partly muttered to himself, partly addressed to the 

I domestics who stood around; and particularly to his 
cup-bearer, who offered him from time to time, as a 
| sedative, a silver goblet filled with wine—“Why 
fj tarries the Lady Rowena?” 

“She is but changing her head-gear,” replied a 

I female attendant, with as much confidence as the 
favorite lady's maid usually answers the master of 
a modern family; “you would not wish her to sit 
down to the banquet in her hood and kirtle? and no 
lady within the shire can be quicker in arraying her¬ 
self than my mistress.” 

This undeniable argument produced a sort of ac¬ 
quiescent umph! on the part of the Saxon, with the 
addition, “I wish her devotion may choose fair 
weather for the next visit to St. John’s Kirk;—but 
what, in the name of ten devils,” continued he, turn¬ 
ing to the cup-bearer, and raising his voice, as if 
happy to have found a channel into which he might 
divert his indignation without fear or control— 
“what, in the name of ten devils, keeps Gurth so 
long a-field? I suppose we shall have evil account 
I of the herd; he was wont to be a faithful and cau¬ 
tious drudge, and I had destined him for something 
; better; perchance I might even have made him one 
| of my warders.” 1 

Oswald the cup-bearer modestly suggested, “that 
it was scarce an hour 'since the tolling of the cur- 
i few;” 1 an ill-chosen apology, since it turned upon a 
i topic so harsh to Saxon ears. 

“The foul fiend,” exlclaimed Cedric, ‘Itake the 
curfew-bell, and the tyrannical bastard by whom it 
was devised, and the heartless slave who names it 
; '‘The curfew was established by William the Conqueror 
as a means of safety and as a means of controlling the 
Saxons. All fires were to be covered and all lights out 
at that time. 






40 


IVANHOE 


with a Saxon tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!” 
he added, pausing, “ay, the curfew; which compels 
true men to extinguish their lights, that thieves and 
robbers may work their deeds in darkness!—Ay, the 
curfew;—Reginald Front-de-Bceuf and Philip de 
Malvoisin know the use of the curfew as well as 
William the Bastard himself, or e'er a Norman ad¬ 
venturer that fought at Hastings. I shall hear, I 
guess, that my property has been swept off to save 
from starving the hungry banditti, whom they can¬ 
not support but by theft and robbery. My faithful 
slave is murdered, and my goods are taken for a 
prey—and Wamba—where is Wamba? Said not 
some one he had gone forth with Gurth?” 

Oswald replied in the affirmative. 

“Ay? why this is better and better! he is carried 
off too, the Saxon fool, to serve the Norman lord. 
Fools are we all indeed that serve them, and fitter 
subjects for their 'scorn and laughter, than if we 
were born with but half our wits. But I will be 
avenged,” he added, starting from his chair in im¬ 
patience at the supposed injury, and catching hold 
of his Boar-spear; “I will go with my complaint to 
the great council; 1 I have friends, I have followers 
—man to man will I appeal the Norman to the lists; 
let him come in his plate and his mail, and all that 
can render cowardice bold; I have sent such a jave¬ 
lin as this through a stronger fence than three of 
their war shields!—Haply they think me old; but 
they shall find, alone and childless as I am, the 
blood of Hereward is in the veins of Cedric.--Ah, 
Wilfred, Wilfred!” he exclaimed in a lower tone, 
“couldst thou have ruled thine unreasonable pas¬ 
sion, thy father had not been left in his age like the 
■solitar y oak, that throws out its shattered and un- 

s The council of State composed of advisers of the king. 





IVANHOE 


41 


protected branches against the full sweep of the 
tempest!” The reflection seemed to conjure into 
sadness his irritated feelings. Replacing his jave¬ 
lin, he resumed his seat, bent his looks downward, 
and appeared to be absorbed in melancholy reflec¬ 
tion. 

From his musing, Cedric was suddenly awakened 
by the blast of a horn, which was replied to by the 
clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs in the 
hall, and some twenty or thirty which were quar¬ 
tered in other part of the building. It cost some ex¬ 
ercise of the white truncheon, well seconded by the 
exertions of the domestics, to silence this canine 
clamor. 

“To the gate, knaves!” said the Saxon, hastily, 
as soon as the tumult was so much appeased that 
the dependents could hear his voice. “See what ti¬ 
dings that horn tells us of—to announce, I ween, 
some hership and robbery which has been done upon 
my lands.” 

Returning in less than three minutes, a warder 
announced, “that the Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx. and 
the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, commander 
of the valiant and venerable order of Knights Tern 
plans, with a small retinue, requested hospitality 
and lodging for the night, being on their way to a 
tournament which was to be held not far from 
Ashby-de-la-Zouche, on the second day from the 
present.” 

“Aymer, the Prior Aymer? Brian de Bois-Guil¬ 
bert?”—muttered Cedric; “Normans both;—but 
Norman or Saxon, the hospitality of Rotherwood 
must not be impeached; they are welcome, since 
they have chosen to halt—more welcome would they 
have been to have ridden further on their way.—• 
But it were unworthy to murmur for a night’s lodg- 



42 


IVANHOE 


ing and a night’s food; in the quality of guests, at 
least, even Normans must suppress their insolence. 
—Go, Hundebert,” he added, to a sort of major- 
domo who stood behind him with a white wand; 
"take six of the attendants, and introduce the 
strangers to the guests’ lodging. Look after their 
horses and mules, and see their train lack nothing. , 
Let them have change of vestments if they require 
it, and fire, and water to wash, and wine and ale; , 
and bid the cooks add what they hastily can to our 
evening meal; and let it be put on the board when 
those strangers are ready to share it. Say to them, 
Hundebert,. that Cedric, would himself <b(id them 
welcome, but he is under a vow never to step more 
than three steps from the dais of his own hall to 
meet any who shares not the blood of Saxon royalty. 
Begone! see them carefully tended; let them not 
say in their pride, the Saxon churl has shown at 
once his poverty and his avarice.” 

The major-domo departed with several attendants, 
to execute his master’s commands. “The Prior Ay- 
mer!” repeated Cedric, looking to Oswald, “the 
brother, if I mistake not, of Giles de Mauleverer, 
now lord of Middleham?” 

Oswald made a respectful sign of assent. “His 
brother sits in the seat, and usurps the patrimony, 
of a better race, the race of Ulfgar of Middleham; 
but what Norman lord doth not the same? This 
Prior is, they say, a free and jovial priest, who 
loves the wine-cup and the bugle-horn be'tter than 
bell and book. 1 Good; let him come, he shall be wel¬ 
come. How named ye the Templar?” 

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert.” 

“Bois-Guilbert,” said Cedric, still in the musing, 


x Suggestive of the monastery and certainly more becom¬ 
ing to the monastic life than wine-cup. 









IVANHOE 


43 


lalf-arguing tone, which the habit of living among 
dependents had accustomed him to employ, and 
than to those around him—“Bois-Guilbert? That 
name has been spread wide both for good and evil. 
They say he is valiant as the bravest of his order; 
but stained with their usual vices—pride, arrogance, 
cruelty, and voluptuousness; a hard-hearted man, 
who knows neither fear of earth, nor awe of heaven. 
So say the few warriors who have returned from 
Palestine.—Well, it is but for one night; he shall be 
welcome too.—Oswald, broach the oldest wine-cask; 
place the best mead, the mightiest ale, the richest 
morat, the most sparkling cider, the most odorifer¬ 
ous pigments, upon the board; fill the largest horns 
—Templars and Abbots love good wines and good 
measure.—Elgitha, let thy Lady Rowena know we 
shall not this night expect her in the hall, unless 
such be her especial pleasure.” 

“But it will be her especial pleasure,” answered 
Elgitha, with great readiness, “for she is ever de¬ 
sirous to hear the latest news from Palestine.” 

Cedric darted at the forward damsel a glance of 
hasty resentment; but Rowena, and whatever be¬ 
longed to her, were privileged and secure from his 
anger. He only replied, “Silence, maiden; thy 
tongue outruns thy discretion. Say my message to 
thy mistress, and let her do her pleasure. Here, at 
least, the descendant of Alfred still reigns a prin¬ 
cess.” Elgitha left the apartment. 

“Palestine!” repeated the Saxon; “Palestine! 
how many ears are turned to the tales which disso¬ 
lute crusaders, or hypocritical pilgrims, bring from 
that fatal land! I too might ask—I too might in¬ 
quire—I too might listen with a beating heart to 
faoles which the wily strollers devise to cheat us 
into hospitality—but no,—the son who has dis- 





44 


Ivan hoe 


obeyed me is no longer mine; nor will I concen 
myself more for his fate than for that of the mos 
worthless among the millions that ever shaped th> 
cross on their shoulder rushed into excess an< 
blood-guiltiness, and called it an accomplishment o: 
the will of God.” 

He knit his brows, and fixed his eyes for an in 
stant on the ground; as he raised them, the folding 
doors at the bottom of the hall were cast wide, and 
preceded by the major-domo with his wand, and fou: 
domestics bearing blazing torches, the guests of th< 
evening entered the apartment. 


Question: Why was Rowena interested in Palestine? 
Question : The absent son of Cedric serves as the con¬ 
necting link between what two classes of people and be¬ 
tween what elements in our story? 





CHAPTER IV 


With sheep and shaggy goats the porkers bled. 

And the proud steer was on the marble spread; 

With fire prepared, they deal the morsels round, 

Wine rosy bright the brimming goblets crown’d. 

* * * 

Disposed apart, Ulysses shares the treat; 

A trivet table and ignobler seat, 

The Prince assigns-- 

Odyssey , Book 21. 

The Prior Aymer had taken the opportunity af¬ 
forded him, of changing his riding robe for one of 
pet more costly materials, over which he wore a 
sope 1 2 curiously embroidered. Besides the massive 
golden signet ring, which marked his ecclesiastical 
dignity, his fingers, though contrary to the canon," 
were loaded with precious gems; his sandals were 
of the finest leather which was imported from 
Spain; his beard trimmed to as small dimensions as 
his order would possibly permit, and his shaven 
crown concealed by a scarlet cap richly embroidered. 

The appearance of the Knight Templar was also 
changed; and, though less studiously bedecked with 
ornament, his dress was as rich, and his appearance 
far more commanding, than that of his companion. 
He had exchanged his shirt of mail for an under 
tunic of dark purple silk, garnished with furs, over 
which flowed his long robe of spotless white, in am¬ 
ple folds. The eight-pointed cross 3 of his order was 
cut on the shoulder of his mantle in black velvet. 


a An ecclesiatical cloak, which was more suitable for a 
procession than a dinner party. 

2 Rules for the government of a religious order. 

3 The emblem of the Knight Templars. The Maltese cross 
of red had eight points. 





46 


Ivan hob 


The high cap no longer invested his brows, whicif) 
were only shaded by short and thick curled hair of a 
raven blackness, corresponding to his unusually 
swart complexion. Nothing could be more grace¬ 
fully majestic than his step and manner, had they 
not been marked by a .predominant air of haughti¬ 
ness, easily acquired by the exercise of unresisted 
authority. 

These two dignified persons were followed by 
their respective attendants, and at a more humble 
distance by their guide, whose figure had nothing 
more remarkable than it derived from| the usual 
weeds of a pilgrim. A cloak or mantle of coarse 
'black serge enveloped his whole body. It was in 
shape something like the cloak of a modern hussar, 
having similar flaps for covering the arms, and was 
called a Sclaveyn, or Sclavonian. Coarse sandals, 
bound with thongs, on his bare feet; a broad and 
shadowy hat, with cockle-shells 1 stitched on its brim, 
and a long staff shod with iron, to the upper end 
of which was attached a branch of palm, completed 
the Palmer's attire. He followed modestly the last 
of the train which entered the hall, and, observing 
that the lower table scarce afforded room sufficient 
for the domestics of Cedric and the retinue of his 
guests, he withdrew to a settle placed beside and al¬ 
most under one of the large chimneys, and seemec 
to employ himself in drying his garments, until th€ 
retreat of some one should make room at the board 
or the hospitality of the steward should supply hin 
with refreshments in the place he had chosen apart 

Cedric rose to receive his guests with an air ol 
dignified hospitality, and, descending from the dais 


*An emblem worn by Pilgrims from Palestine just af 
the palm branch was. 



IVANHOE 


47 


or elevated part of his hall, made three steps 
;owards~rriem, and then awaited their approach. 

, “I grieve,” he said, “reverend Prior, that my vow 
, jbinds me to advance no farther upon this floor of 
jjmy fathers, even to receive such guests as you, and 
this valiant Knight of the Holy Temple. But my 
^steward has expounded to you the cause of my seem¬ 
ing discourtesy. Let me also pray, that you will ex- 
y|cuse my speaking to you in my native language, and 
that you will reply in the same if your knowledge 
of it permits; if not, I sufficiently understand Nor- 
iman to follow your meaning.” 

“Vows,” said the Abbot, “must be unloosed, 
5 worthy Franklin, or permit me rather to say, worthy 
r 'Thane, though the title is antiquated. Vows are the 
l? knots which tie us to Heaven—they are the cords 
j which bind the sacrifice to the horns of the altar, 1 — 
djand are therefore,—as I said before, — to be un- 
B loosened and discharged, unless our holy Mother 
(j!Church shall pronounce the contrary. And respect¬ 
ing language, I willingly hold communication in that 
,1 1 spoken by my respected grandmother, Hilda of Mid- 
I dleham, who died in odor of sanctity, little short, 
,1 if we may presume to say so, of her glorious name¬ 
sake, the blessed Saint Hilda of Whitby , 2 God be 
]!gracious to her soul!” 

1( j When the Prior had ceased what he meant as a 
ie conciliatory harangue, his companion said briefly 
j and emphatically, “I speak ever French, the lan- 
jj guage of King Richard and his nobles; but I under- 

1 lr rhe projection at the four corners of the Jewish altar, 
if See I Kings II, 28, and I Kings I, 50. 

$, 2 A famous Abbess of the convent at Whitby on the coast 

' of Yorkshire. 

| Question: How does the Prior show himself to be es- 
l! pecially diplomatic? 






48 


Ivan hoe 


stand English sufficiently to communicate with the 
natives of the country.” 

Cedric darted at the speaker one of those hasty 
and impatient glances, which comparisons between 
the two rival nations seldom failed to call forth, 
but, recollecting the duties of hospitality, he sup¬ 
pressed further show of resentment, and, motioning 
witli his hand, caused his guests to assume two 
seats a little lower than his own, but placed close 
beside him, and gave a signal that the evening meal 
should be placed upon the board. 

While the attendants hastened to obey Cedric’s 
commands, his eye distinguished Gurth the swine¬ 
herd, who, with his companion Wamba, had just 
entered the hall. “Send these loitering knaves up 
hither,” said the Saxon, impatiently. And when the 1 
culprits came before the dais,—“How comes it, vil-1 
lains! that you have loitered abroad so late as this! 
Hast thou brought home thy charge, sirrah Gurth, 
or hast thou left them to robbers and marauders?” 

“The herd is safe, so please ye,” said Gurth. 

“But it does not please me, thou knave,” said 
Cedric, “that I should be made to suppose other¬ 
wise for two hours, and sit here devising vengeance 
against my neighbors for wrongs they have not done 
me. I tell thee, shackles and the prison-house shall 
punish the next offense of this kind.” 

Gurth, knowing his master’s irritable temper, at¬ 
tempted no exculpation; but the Jester, who could 
presume upon Cedric’s tolerance, by virtue of his 
privileges as a fool, replied for them both, “In troth, 
uncle 1 Cedric, you are neither wise nor reasonable 
to-night.” 

“How , sir?” said his master; “you shall to the 

*A title used by jesters in place of “master,” in reality 
to express mock familiarity with their masters. 





IVANHOE 


49 


porter’s lodge, and taste of the discipline there, if 
you give your foolery such license.” 

“First let your wisdom tell me,” said Wamba, 
“is it just and reasonable to punish one person for 
the fault of another?” 

“Certainly not, fool,” answered Cedric. 

“Then why should you shackle poor Gurth, uncle, 
for the fault of his dog Fangs? for I dare be sworn 
we lost not a minute by the way, when we had got 
our herd together, which Fangs did not manage un¬ 
til we heard the vesper-bell.” 

“Then hang up Fangs,” said Cedric, turning hast¬ 
ily towards the swineherd, “if the fault is his, and 
get thee another dog.” 

“Under favor, uncle,” said the Jester, “that were 
still somewhat on the bow-hand 1 of fair justice; 
for it was no fault of Fangs that he was lame and 
could not gather the herd, but the fault of those that 
struck off two of his foreclaws, an operation for 
which, if the poor fellow had been consulted, he 
would scarce have given his voice.” 

“And who dared to lame an animal which be¬ 
longed to my bondsman?” said the Saxon, kindling 
in wrath. 

“Marry, that did old Hubert,” said Wamba, “Sir 
Philip de Malvoisin’s keeper of the chase. He 
caught Fangs strolling in the forest, and said he 
chased the deer contrary to his master’s right, as 
warden of the walk.” 2 

“The foul fiend take Malvoisin,” answered the 
Saxon, “and his keeper both! I will teach them 
that the wood was disforested in terms of the great 
Forest Charter. But enough of this. Go to, knave, 
go to thy place—and thou, Gurth, get thee another 

a “Left hand,” on the wrong side; unjust. 

Guardian of the range. 





50 


Ivan hoe 


dog, and should the keeper dare to touch it, i 
mar his archery; the curse of a coward on my heau, 
if I strike not off the forefinger of his right hand!— 
He shall draw bowstring no more.—I crave your par¬ 
don, my worthy guests. I am beset here with neigh¬ 
bors that match your infidels, Sir Knight, in Holy 
Land. But your homely fare is before you; feed, 
and let welcome make amends for hard fare.” 

The feast, however, which was spread upon the 
board, needed no apologies from the lord of the man¬ 
sion. Swine’s flesh, dressed in several modes, ap¬ 
peared on the lower part of the board, as also that 
of fowls, deer, goats, and hares, and various kinds 
of fish, together with huge loaves and cakes of 
breaS, and sundry confections made of fruits and 
honey. The smaller sorts of wild-fowl, of which 
there was abundance, were not served up in platters, 
but brought in upon small wooden spits or broaches, 
and offered by the pages and domestics who bore 
them, to each guest in succession, who cut from 
them such a portion as he pleased. Beside each per¬ 
son of rank was placed a goblet of silver; the lower 
board was accommodated with Targe drinking horns. 

When the repast was about to commence, the 
major-domo, or steward, suddenly raking his wand, 
said aloud,—“Forbear!—Place for the Lady Row- 
ena.” A side-door at the upper end of the hall now 
opened behind the banquet table, and Rowena, fol¬ 
lowed by four female attendants, entered the apart¬ 
ment. Cedric, though surprised, and perhaps not 
altogether agreeably so, at his ward appearing in 
public on this occasion, hastened to meet her, and 
to conduct her, with respectful ceremony, to the ele¬ 
vated seat at his own right hand, appropriated to 
the lady of the mansion. All stood up to receive 
her; and, replying to their courtesy by a mute ges- 




IVANHOE 


51 


|ture of salutation, she moved gracefully forward to 
assume her place at the board. Ere she had time 
to do so, the Templar whispered to the Prior, “1 
shall wear no collar of gold of yours at the tourna¬ 
ment. The Chian wine is your own.” 

“Said I not so?” answered the Prior; “but check 
your raptures, the Franklin observes you.” 
i Unheeding this remonstrance, and accustomed only 
to act upon the immediate impulse of his own 

* wishes, Brian de Bois-Guilbert kept his eyes riveted 
on the Saxon beauty, more striking perhaps to his 

c imagination, because differing widely from those 
iof the Eastern sultanas. 

Formed in the best proportions of her sex, Row- 
jcna was tall in stature, yet not.so much so as to 

* attract observation on account of superior height. 
|Her complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble 
feast of her head and features prevented the insipid¬ 
ity which sometimes attaches to fair beauties. Her 
clear blue eye, which sate enshrined beneath a 
graceful eyebrow of brown sufficiently marked to 
give expression to the forehead, seemed capable to 
kindle as well as melt, to command as well as to be- 

* seech. If mildness were the more natural expres¬ 
sion of uch a combination of features, it was plain, 

| that in the present instance, the exercise of habitual 

superiority, and the reception of general homage, 
had given to the Saxon lady a loftier character, 
which mingled with and qualified that bestowed by 
nature. Her profuse hair, of a color betwixt brown 
and flaxen, was arranged in a fanciful and graceful 
j manner in numerous ringlets to form which art had 
probably aicTed nature. These locks were braided 
with gems, and being worn at full length, intimated 


Question : What does the Templar mean by the words 
lie whispered to the Prior? 






52 


IVANIIOE 


the noble birth and free-born condition of the maid¬ 
en. A golden chain, to which was attached a small 
reliquary of the same metal, hung round her neck, 
She wore bracelets on her arms, which were bare, 
Her dress was an under-gown and kirtle of pale sea- 
green silk, over which hung a long loose robe, which 
reached to the ground, having very wide sleeves, 
which came down, however, very little below the el¬ 
bow. This robe was crimson, and manufactured out 
of the very ffinest wool. A veil of silk, interwoven 
with gold, was attached to the upper part of it, 
which could be, at the wearer’s pleasure, either 
drawn over the face and bosom after the Spanish 
fashion, or disposed as a sort of drapery round the 
shoulders. 

When Rowena perceived the Knight Templar’s 
eyes bent on her with an ardor, that, compared with 
the dark caverns under which they moved, gave 
them the effect of lighted charcoal, she drew with 
dignity the veil around her face, as an intimation 
that the determined freedom of his glance was dis¬ 
agreeable. Cedric -saw the motion and its cause. 

Sir Templar,” said he, “the cheeks of our Saxon 
maidens have seen too little of the sun to enable 
them to bear the fixed glance of a crusader.” 

“If I have offended, ” replied Sir Brian, “I crave 
your pardon that is, I crave the Lady Rowena’s 
pardon for my humility will carry me no lower.” 

“The Lady Rowena,” said the Prior, “has pun¬ 
ished us all, in chastising the boldness of my friend. 
Let me hope she will be less cruel to the splendid 
train which are to meet at the tournament.” 

“Our going thither,” said Cedric, "is uncertain. 
I love not these vanities, which were unknown to 
my fathers when England was free.” 

“Let us hope, nevertheless,” said the Prior, “our 


IVANHOE 


58 


company may determine you to travel thitherward; 
when the roads are so unsafe, the escort of Sir 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert is not to be despised.” 

“Sir Prior,” answered the Saxion, “wheresoever 
I have traveled in this land, I have hitherto found 
myself, with the assistance of my good sword and 
faithful followers, in no respect needful of other 
aid. At present, if we indeed journey to Ashby-de- 
la-Zouche, we do so with my noble neighbor and 
countryman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, 1 and with 
such a train as would set outlaws and feudal ene¬ 
mies at defiance.—I drink to you, Sir Prior, in this 
cup of wine, which I trust your taste will approve, 
and I thank you for your courtesy. Should you be 
so rigid in adhering to monastic rule,” he added, “as 
to prefer your acid preparation of milk, I hope you 
will not strain courtesy to do me reason.” 

“Nay,” said the Priest,-laughing, “it is only in 
our abbey that we confine ourselves to the lac dulce 2 
or the lac acidum either. Conversing with the world, 
we use the world’s fashion, and therefore I answer 
your pledge in this honest wine, and leave the weak¬ 
er liquor'to my lay-brother.” 

^Ahd I,” said the Templar, filling his goblet, 
“drink wassail 3 to the fair Rowena; for since her 
namesake 4 introduced the word into England, has 
never been one more worthy of such a tribute. By 
my faith, I could pardon the unhappy Vortigern, had 
he half the cause that we now witness, for making 
shipwreck of his honor and his kingdom.” 


*A castle in Yorkshire. 

2 Sweet milk, sour milk. 

3 (See Century dictionary). From Wes, be and liael, whole. 
The Templar drinks to the health of Rowena. 

4 Rowena was the name of the daughter of a Saxon in¬ 
vader, Hengist. She married Vortigern, a British king. 



54 


Ivan hoe 


“I will spare your courtesy, Sir Knight,” said 
Rowena with dignity, and without unveiling herself; 
“or rather I will tax it so far as to require of you 
the latest news from Palestine, a theme more agree¬ 
able to our English ears, than the compliments 
which your French breeding teaches.” 

“I have little of importance to say, lady,” an¬ 
swered Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, “excepting the 
confirmed tidings of a truce with Saladin.” 1 

Ife was interrupted by Wamba, who had taken his 
appropriated seat upon a chair, the back of which 
was decorated with two ass’s ears, and which was 
placed about two steps behind that of his master, 
who, from time to time, supplied him with victuals 
from his own trencher; a favor, however, which the 
Jester shared with the favorite dogs, of whom, as 
we have already noticed, there were several in at¬ 
tendance. Here <sat Wamba, with a small table 
before him, his heels tucked up against the bar of 
the chair, his cheeks sucked up so as to make his 
jaws resemble a pair of nut-crackers, and his eyes 
half-shut, yet watching with alertness every oppor¬ 
tunity to exercise his licensed foolery. 

“These truces with the infidels,” he exclaimed, 
without, caring how suddenly he interrupted the 
stately Templar, “make an old man of me!” 

“Go to, knace, how so?” said Cedric, his fea¬ 
tures prepared to receive favorably the expected jest. 

“Because,” answered Wamba, “I remember three 
of them in my day, each of which was to endure for 
the course of fifty years; so that, by computation, I 
must be at least a hundred and fifty years old.” 

“I will warrant you against dying of old age, how¬ 
ever,” said the Templar, who now recognized his 


1 Famous sultan of Egypt and Spain who fought the cru¬ 
saders successfully ma»y yeari. 



IVANHOE 


55 


friend of the forest; “I will assure you from all 
' deaths but a violent one, if you give such directions 
: to wayfarers, as you did this night to the Prior and 
j me.” 

“How, sirrah?” said Cedric, “misdirect travelers? 
We must have you whipt; you are at least as much 
rogue as fool.” 

“I pray thee, uncle,” answered the Jester, “let 
my folly for once protect my roguery. I did but 
make a mistake between my right hand and my left, 
and he might have pardoned a greater, who took a 
fool for his counselor and guide.” 

Conversation was here interrupted by the en¬ 
trance of the porter’s page, who announced that 
there was a stranger at the gate, imploring admit¬ 
tance and hospitality. 

“Admit him,” said Cedric, “be he who or what 
he may;—a night like that which roars without, 
compels even wild animals to herd with tame, and to 
seek the protection of man. their mortal foe, rather 
than perish by the elements. Let his wants be minis¬ 
tered to with all care.—Look to it Oswald.” 

And the steward left the banqueting hall to see 
the commands of his patron obeyed. 


Question: Did the Templar suspect that Wamba gave 
him the wrong directions on purpose-?.-..-*.•• —vV 




CHAPTER V 


Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, di¬ 
mensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same 
food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same dis¬ 
eases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the 
same winter and summer, as a Christian is? 

Merchant of Venice. 

Oswald, returning, whispered into the ear of his 
master, “It is a Jew, who calls himself Isaac of 
York; is it fit I should marshal him into the hall?" 

“Let Gurth do thine office, Oswald," said Wamba, 
with his usual effrontery; “the swineherd will be a 
fit usher to the Jew." 

“St. Mary," said the Abbot, crossing himself, “an 
unbelieving Jew, and admitted into this presence!" 

“A dog Jew," echoed the Templar, “to approach 
8 defender of the Holy Sepulcher?" 

“By my faith,” said Wamba, “it would seem the 
Templars love the Jews' inheritance better than they 
do their company.” 

“Peace, my worthy guests," said Cedric; “my 
hospitality must not be bounded by your dislikes. If 
Heaven bore with the whole nation of stiff-necked 
unbelievers for more years than a layman can num¬ 
ber, we may endure the presence of one Jew for a 
few hours. But I constrain no man to converse or to 
feed with him.—Let him have a board and a morsel 
apart,—unless," he said, smiling, “these turban’d 
strangers will admit his society." 

“Sir Franklin,” answered the Templar, “my 
Saracen slaves are true Moslems, 1 and scorn as much 
as any Christian to hold intercourse with a Jew." 

‘tNow, in faith," said Wamba, “I cannot see that 


followers of Mohammedans. 



IVANHOE 


57 


the worshipers of Mahound and Termagaunt 1 have 
so greatly the advantage over the people once 
chosen of Heaven.” 

“He shall sit with thee, Wamba,” said Cedric; 
“the fool and the knave will be well met.” 

“The fool,” answered Wamba, raising the relics 
of a gammon of bacon, “will take care to erect a 
bulwark against the knave.” 

“Hush,” said Cedric, “for here he comes.” 

Introduced with little ceremony, and advancing 
with fear and hesitation, and many a bow of deep 
humility, a tall, thin old man, who, however, had lost 
by the habit of stooping much of his actual height, 
approached the lower end of the board. His fea¬ 
tures, keen and regular, with an aquiline nose, and 
piercing black eyes; his high and wrinkled forehead, 
and long gray hair and beard, would have been con¬ 
sidered as handsome, had they not be'eh the marks of 
a physiognomy peculiar to a race, which, during 
those dark ages, was alike detested by the credulous 
and prejudiced vulgar, and persecuted by the greedy 
and rapacious nobility, and who, perhaps owing to 
that very hatred and persecution, had adopted a na¬ 
tional character, in which there was much, to say 
the least, mean and unamiable. 

The Jew’s dress, which appeared to have suffered 
considerably from the storm, was a plain russet 
cloak of many folds, covering a dark purple tunic. 
He had large boots lined with fur, and a belt around 
his waist, which sustained a small knife, together 
with a case for writing materials, but no weapons. 
He wore a high square yellow cap of a peculiar 
fashion, assigned to his nation to distinguish them 


‘Supposed'to have been a god worshipped by the Moham¬ 
medans. 





58 


[VANHOC 


from Christians, and which he doffed with great 
humility at the door of the hall. 

The reception of this person in the hall of Cedric 
the Saxon, was such as might have satisfied the most 
prejudiced enemy of the tribes of Israel. Cedric 
himself coldly nodded in answer to the Jew’s repeat¬ 
ed salutations, and signed to him to take place at 
the lower end of the table, where, however, no one 
offered to make room for him. On the contrary, as 
he passed along the file, casting a timid supplicating 
glance, and turning towards each of those who oc- j 
cupied the lower end of the board, the Saxon domes¬ 
tics squared their shoulders, and continued to de¬ 
vour their supper with great perseverance, paying 
not the least attention to the wants of the new 
guest. The attendants of the Abbot crossed them¬ 
selves, with looks of pious horror, and the very 
heathen Saracens, as Isaac drew near them, curled 
up their whiskers with indignation, and laid their 
hands on their poniards, as if ready to rid them¬ 
selves by the most desperate means from the ap¬ 
prehended contamination of his nearer approach. 

Probably the same motives which induced Cedric 
to open his hall to this son of a rejected people, 
would have made him insist on his attendants re¬ 
ceiving Isaac with more courtesy. But the Abbot 
had, at this moment, engaged him in a most inter¬ 
esting discussion on the breed and character of his 
favorite hounds, which he would not have inter¬ 
rupted for matters of much greater importance than 
that of a Jew going to bed supperless. While Isaac 
thus stood an outcast in the present society, like his 
people among the nations, looking in vain for wel¬ 
come or resting place, the Pilgrim who sat by the 

Question : Why did Isaac wear a cap different from 
that of anyone else? 






IVANHOE 


59 


chimney took compassion upon him, and resigned 
his seat, saying briefly, “Old man, my garments are 
| dried, my hunger is appeased; thou art both wet 
and fasting.” So saying, he gathered together, and 
brought to a flame, the decaying brands which lay 
scattered on the ample hearth; took from the larger 
board a mess of pottage and seethed kid, placed it 
upon the small table at which he had himself 
supped, and, without waiting the Jew’s thanks, went 
to the other side of the hall; whether from unwill¬ 
ingness to hold more close communication with the 
object of his benevolence, or from a wish to draw 
near to the upper end of the table, seemed uncertain. 

Had there been painters in those days capable to 
execute such a subject, the Jew, as he bent his 
| withered form, and expanded his chilled and trem¬ 
bling hands over the fire, would have formed no bad 
emblematical personification of the Winter season. 
Having dispelled the cold, he turned eagerly to the 
smoking mess which was placed before him, and ate 
with a haste and an apparent relish, that seemed to 
betoken long abstinence from food. 

Meanwhile the Abbot and Cedric continued their 
discourse upon hunting; the Lady Rowena seemed 
engaged in conversation with one of her attendant 
females; and the haughty Templar,; whose eyes 
seemed to wander from the Jew to the Saxon beauty, 
revolved in his mind thoughts which appeared deep¬ 
ly to interest him. 

“I marvel, worthy Cedric,” said the Abbot, as 
their discourse proceeded, “that, great as your predi¬ 
lection is for your own manly language, you do 
not receive the Norman-French into your favor, so 
far at least as the mystery of wood-craft and hunt¬ 
ing is concerned. Surely no tongue is so rich in the 
various phrases which the field-sports demand, or 



60 


Ivan hoe 


furnishes means to the experienced woodman so 
well to express his jovial art.” 

“Good Father Aymer,” said the Saxon, “be it 
known to you, I care not for those over-sea refine¬ 
ments, without which I can well enough take my 
pleasure in the woods. I can wind my horn, though 
I call not the blast either a recheate 1 or a morte 2 — 
I can cheer my dogs on the prey, and I can flay and 
quarter the animal when it is brought down, with¬ 
out using the new-fangled jargon of curee , 3 arbor , 4 
nombles , 5 and all the babble of the fabulous Sir 
Tristrem.” 

“The French,” said the Templar, raising his voice 
with the presumptuous and authoritative tone which 
he used upon all occasions, “is not only the natural 
language of the chase , 6 but that of love and of 
war, in which ladies should be won and enemies 
defied.” 

“Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar,” said 
Cedric, “and fill another to the Abbot, while I look 

"Recall. 

2 Call at the death of a stag. 

3 Portion given the dogs. 

4 The vitals. 

5 Entrails. 

6 “There was no language which the Normans more for¬ 
mally separated from that of common life than the terms 
of the chase. The objects of their pursuit, whether bird 
or animal, changed their names each year, and there were 
a hundred conventional terms, to be ignorant of which 
was to be without one of the distinguishing marks of a 
gentleman. The reader may consult Dame Juliana Ber¬ 
ner’s book on the subject. The origin of this science was 
imputed to the celebrated Sir Tristam, famous for his 
tragic intrigue with the beautiful Ysolte. As the Normans 
reserved the amusement of hunting strictly to themselves, 
the terms of this formal jargon were all taken from the 
French language.” (Scott’s Note.) 



IVANHOE 


61 


back some thirty years to tell you another tale. As 
Cedric the Saxon then was, his plain English tale 
needed no garnish from French troubadours, when 
it was told in the -ear of beauty; and the field of 
Northallerton, 1 upon the day of the Holy Standard, 
could tell whether the Saxon war-cry was not heard 
as far within the ranks of the Scottish host as the 
cri de guerre 2 of the boldest Norman baron. To the 
memory of the brave who fought there!—Pledge 
me, my guests.” He drank deep, and went on with 
increasing warmth. “Ay, that was a day of cleav¬ 
ing of shields, when a hundred banners were bent 
forward over the heads of the valiant, and blood 
flowed round like water, and death was held better 
than flight. A Saxon bard had called it a feast of 
the swords—a gathering of the eagles to the prey— 
the clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the 
shouting of battle more joyful than the clamor of a 
bridal. But our bards are no more,” he said; “our 
deeds are lost in those of another race,—our lan¬ 
guage—our very name—is hastening to decay, and 
none mourns for it save one solitary old man.—Cup¬ 
bearer! knave, fill the goblets—To the strong in 
arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language what 
it will, who now bear them best in Palestine among 
the champions of the Cross!” 

“It becomes not one wearing this badge to an¬ 
swer,” said Sir Brian de !Bois-Guilbert; “yet to 
whom, besides the sworn Champions of the Holy 
Sepulcher, can the palm be assigned among the 
champions of the Cross.” 


^own twenty miles north of York where famous Battle 
of Standard was fought. The English barons defeated 
Scotch invaders. 

2 War-cry. 





62 


Ivan hoe 


“To the Knights Hospitallers,” 1 said the Abbot; 
“I have a brother of their order.” 

“I impeach not their fame,” said the Templar; 
“nevertheless-” 

“I think, friend Cedric,” said Wamba, interfer¬ 
ing, “that had Richard of the Lion’s Heart been 
wise enough to have taken a fool’s advice, he might 
have staid at home with his merry Englishmen, and 
left the recovery of Jerusalem to those same knights 
who had most to do with the loss of it.” 

“Were there, then, none in the English army,” 
said the Lady Rowena, “whose names are worthy to 
be mentioned with the Knights of the Temple, and 
of St. John?” 

“Forgive me, lady,” replied De Bois-Guilbert; 
“the English monarch did, indeed, bring to Pales¬ 
tine a host of gallant warriors, second only to those 
whose breasts have been the unceasing bulwark of 
that blessed land.” 

“Second to NONE,” said the Pilgrim, who ,h a ^ 
stood near enough to hear, and had listened to this 
conversation with marked impatience. All turned 
towards the spot from whence this unexpected as¬ 
severation was heard. “I say,” repeated the Pilgrim 
in a firm and strong voice, “that the English chiv¬ 
alry were second to none who ever drew sword in 
defense of the Holy Land. I say besides, for I saw 
it, that King Richard himself, and five of his knights, 
held a tournament after the taking of St. John-de- 
Acre, 2 as challengers against all comers. I say that, 
on that day, each knight ran three courses, and cast 
to the ground three antagonists. I add, that seven 


’Body of military monks, first formed among monks of 
Hospital of St. John at Jerusalem. 

2 Acre, sea port in Palestine which Richard helped to cap¬ 
ture. 







IVANHOE 


63 


of these assailants were Knights of the Temple— 
and Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth 
of what I tell you.” 

It is impossible for language to describe the bitter 
j scowl of rage which rendered yet darker the 
jswarthy countenance of the Templar. In the ex¬ 
tremity of his resentment and confusion, his quiver¬ 
ing fingers griped towards the handle of his sword, 
and perhaps only withdrew, from the consciousness 
that no act of violence could be safely executed in 
that place and presence. Cedric, whose feelings 
were all of a right onward and simple kind, and were 
seldom occupied by more than one object at once, 
omitted, in the joyous glee with which he heard of 
the glory of his countrymen, to remark the angry 
I confusion of his guest. “I would give thee this 
golden bracelet, Pilgrim,” he said, “couldst thou 
tell me the names of those knights who upheld so 
gallantly the renown of merry England.” 

“That will I do blithely,” replied the Pilgrim, 
.“and without guerdon; my oath, for a time, pro¬ 
hibits me from touching gold.” 

“I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, 
friend Palmer,” said Wamba. 

“The first in honor as in arms, in renown as in 
place,” said the Pilgram, “was the brave Richard, 
King of England.” 

“I forgive him,” said Cedric; “I forgive him his 
descent from the tyrant Duke William.” 1 

“The Earl of Leicester was the second,” con¬ 
tinued the Pilgrim; “Sir Thomas Multon of Gilsland 
was the third.” 

“Of Saxon descent, he at least,” said Cedric with 
exultation. 


William the Conqueror, 1066. 





64 


IVANHOE 




“Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth,” proceeded the 
Pilgrim. 

“Saxon also, at least by the mother’s side,” con¬ 
tinued Cedric, who listened with the utmost eager¬ 
ness, and forgot, in part at least, his hatred to the 
Normans in the common triumph of the King of Eng¬ 
land and his islanders. “And who was the fifth?” 
he demanded. 

“The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham.” 

“Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!” 1 shouted 
Cedric. “And the sixth?” he continued with eager¬ 
ness—“how name you the sixth?” 

“The sixth,” said the Palmer, after a pause, in 
which he seemed to recollect himself, “was a young 
knight of lesser renown and lower rank, assumed 
into that honorable company, less to aid their en¬ 
terprise than to make up their number;—his name 
dwells not in my memory.” 

“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert 
scornfully, “this assumed forgetfulness, after so 
much has been remembered, comes too late to serve 
your purpose. I will myself tell the name of the 
knight before whose lance fortune and my horse’s 
fault occasioned my falling—it was the Knight of 
Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his 
years, had more renown in arms.—Yet this will I 
say, and loudly—that were he in England, and durst 
repeat, in this week’s tournament, the challenge of 
St. John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now 
am, would give him every advantage in weapons, and 
abide the result.” 

“Your challenge would be soon answered,” re¬ 
plied the Palmer, “were your antagonist near you. 
As the matter is, disturb not the peaceful hall with 
vaunts of the issue of the conflict, which you well 


’One of the first Saxons to invade England. 



IVANHOE 


65 


know cannot take place. If Ivanhoe ever returns 
i from Palestine, I will be his surety that he meets 
; you.” 

“A goodly security!” said the Knight Templar; 
j “and what do your proffer as a pledge?” 

“This reliquary,” said the Palmer, taking a small 
ivory box from his bosom, and crossing himself, 
“containing a portion of the true cross, brought 
from the Monastery of Mount Carmel. 

The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and re¬ 
peated a paternoster, in which all devoutly joined, 

, excepting the Jew, the Mahommedans, and the Tem¬ 
plar; the latter of whom, without vailing his bonnet , 1 
or testifying any reverence for the alleged sanctity 
of the relic, took from his neck a gold chain, which 
he flung on the board, saying—“Let Prior Aymer 
! hold my pledge and that of this nameless vagrant, in 
token that when the Knight of Ivanhoe comes with¬ 
in the four seas of Britain, he underlies the chal¬ 
lenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, which, if he answer 
not, I will proclaim him as a coward on the walls of 
every Temple Court 2 in Europe.” 

“It will not need,” said the Lady Rowena, break¬ 
ing silence; “my voice shall be heard, if no other in 
this hall is raised in behalf of the absent Ivanhoe. I 
affirm he will meet fairly every honorable challenge. 
Could my weak warrant add security to the inesti¬ 
mable pledge of this holy pilgrim, I would pledge 
name and fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud knight 
the meeting he desires.” 

A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have 

taking off his cap. 

2 The Knight Templars had temples or monasteries in 
several countries. 

Question : Out of this quarrel, what part of. the plot 
is Scott advancing? 




66 


IVANIIOE 


occupied Cedric, and kept him silent during this dis¬ 
cussion. Gratified pride, resentment, embarrass¬ 
ment, chased each other over his broad and open 
brow, like the shadow of clouds drifting over a har¬ 
vest-field; while his attendants, on whom the name 
of the sixth knight seemed to produce an effect al¬ 
most electrical, hung in suspense upon their mas¬ 
ter’s looks. But when Rowena spoke, the sound of 
her voice seemed to startle him from his silence. 

“Lady,” said Cedric, “this beseems not; were fur¬ 
ther pledge necessary, I myself, offended, and justly 
offended, as I am, would yet gage my honor for the 
honor of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is com¬ 
plete, even according to the fantastic fashions of 
(N'orman chivalry.—Is it not, Father Aymer?” 

“It is,” replied the Prior; “and the blessed relic 
and rich chain will I bestow safely in the treasury of 
our convent, until the decision of this warlike chal- 
lence.” 

Having thus spoken, he crossed himself again and 
again, and after many genuflections and muttered 
prayers, he delivered the reliquary to Brother Am¬ 
brose, his attendant monk, while he himself swept 
up with less ceremony, but perhaps with no less 
internal sati:faction, the golden chain, and bestowed 
it in a pouch lined with perfumed leather, which 
opened under his arm. “And now, Sir Cedric,” he 
said, “my ears are chiming vespers with the 
strength of your good wine—permit us another 
pledge to the welfare of the Lady Rowena, and in¬ 
dulge us with liberty to pass to our repose.” 

“By the rood of Bromholme,” said the Saxon, 
“you do but small credit to your fame, Sir Prior! 
Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear 


Question : What plot of the story is Rowena’s loyal 
support of Ivanhoe advancing? 



IVANHOE 


67 


the matin chime ere he quitted his bowl; and, old as 
I am, I feared to have shame in encountering you. 
But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of twelve, in my time, 
iwould not so soon have relinquished his goblet/’ 

The Prior had his own reasons, however, for per¬ 
severing in the course of temperance which he had 
adopted. He was not only a professional peacemak¬ 
er, but from practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. 

It was not altogether from a love to his neighbor, 

; or to himself, or from a mixture of both. On the 
present occasion, he had an instinctive apprehension 
iof the fiery temper of the Saxon, and saw the dan¬ 
ger that the reckless and presumptuous spirit, of 
which his companion had already given so many 
proofs, might at length produce some disagreeable 
explosion. 

He therefore gently insinuated the incapacity of 
the native of any other country to engage in the 
genial conflict of the bowl with the hardy and strong¬ 
headed Saxons; something he mentioned, but slight¬ 
ly, about his own holy character, and ended by press¬ 
ing his proposal to depart to repose. 

The grace-cup 1 was accordingly served round, and 
the guests, after making deep obeisance to their 
landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose and mingled 
in the hall, while the heads of the family, by separ¬ 
ate doors, retired with their attendants. 

“Unbelieving dog,” said the Templar to Isaac the 
Jew, as he passed him in the throng, “dost thou 
bend thy course to the tournament?” 

“I do so propose,” replied Isaac, bowing in all 
humility, “if it pleases your reverend valor.” 

“Ay,” said the Knight, “to gnaw the bowels of 
our nobles with usury, and to gull women and boys 

J The cup of wine was passed from person to person after 
grace was said, 









68 


IVANIIOE 


with guards and toys.—I warrant thee store of shek 
els in thy Jewish scrip.” 

“Not a shekel , 1 not a silver penny, not a halfling- 
so held me the God of Abraham!” said the Jew 
clasping his hands; “I go but to seek the assistance 
of some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the 
fine which the Exchequer 2 of the Jews have imposee 
upon me—Father Jacob be my speed. I am an im 
poverished wretch—the very gaberdine I wear is bor 
rowed from Reuben of Tadeaster.” 

The Templar smiled sourly a& he replied, “Be 1 
shrew thee for a false-hearted liar!” and passing 
onward, as if disdaining further conference, he com 
muned with his Moslem slaves in a language un! 
known to the bystanders. The poor Israelite seemei 
so staggered by the address of the military monk 
that the Templar had passed on to the extremity o 
the hall ere he raised his head from the humbl 
posture which he had assumed, so far as to be sen ; 
sible of his departure. And when he did loo 1 
around, it was with the astonished air of one a 
who^e feet a thunderbolt has just burst, and wh 
hears still the astounding report ringing in his ears 

The Templar and Prior were shortly after mar 
shaled to their sleeping apartments by the stewar 
and the cup-bearer, each attended by two tore! 
bearers and two servants carrying refreshments 
while servants of inferior condition indicated t 
their retmue and to the other guests their respectiv 
places of repose. 


l A Jewish coin which varied in value from sixty cent 
(silver) to about five dollars (gold). 

2 “In those days the Jews were subjected to an Excheque 
especially dedicated to that purpose, and w r hich laid the] 
under the most exorbitant impositions.” L. T. (Scott 
note.) 





CHAPTER VI 


To buy his favor I extend this friendship: 

If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; 

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Merchant of Venice. 


i- As the Palmer, lighted by a domestic with a 
r-orch, passed through the intricate combination of 
ipartments of this large and irregular mansion, the 
;:up-bearer coming behind him whispered in his ear, 
phat if he had no objection to a cup of good mead 
i n his apartment, there were many domestics in that 
family who would gladly hear the news he had 
brought from the Holy Land, and particularly that 
vhich concerned the Knight of Ivanhoe. Wamba 
presently appeared to urge the same request, ob¬ 
serving that a cup after midnight was worth three 
pfter curfew. Without disputing a maxim urged 
by such grave authority, the Palmer thanked them 
:or their courtesy, but observed that he had includ¬ 
ed in his religious vow, an obligation never to speak 
n the kitchen on matters which were prohibited in 
;he hall. “That vow/’ said Wamba to the cup¬ 
bearer, “would scarce suit a serving-man.” 
i The cup-bearer shrugged up his shoulders in dis¬ 
pleasure. “I thought to have lodged him in the 
solere chamber,” said he; “but since he is so un¬ 
social to Christians, e’en let him take the next stall 
;o Isaac the Jew’s.—Anwold,” said he to the torch- 
bearer, “carry the Pilgrim to the southern cell.—I 
?ive you good-night,” he added, “Sir Palmer, with 
small thanks for short courtesy.” 

“Good-night, and Our Lady’s benison!” said the 
Palmer, with composure; and his guide moved for¬ 
ward. 

In a small antechamber, into which several doors 




70 


XV4NH0E 


opened, and which was lighted by a small iron lamp, 
they met a second interruption from the waiting- 
maid of Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, 
that her mistress desired to speak with the Palmer, 
took the torch from the hand of Anwold, and, bidding 
him await her return, made a sign to the Palmer to 
follow. Apparently he did not think it proper to 
decline this invitation as he had done the former; 
for, though his gesture indicated some suprise at 
the summons, he obeyed it mithout answer or remon¬ 
strance. 

A short passage, and an ascent of seven steps, each 
of which was composed of a solid beam of oak, led 
him to the apartment of the Lady Rowena, the rude 
magnificence of which corresponded to the respect 
which was paid to her by the lord of the mansion. 
The walls were covered with embroidered hangings, 
on which different-colored silkfs, interwoven with 
gold and silver threads, had been employed with ah 
the art of which the age was capable, to represenl 
the sports of hunting and hawking. The bed was 
adorned with the same rich tapestry, and surroundec 
with curtains dyed with purple. The seats had alsc 
their stained coverings, and one, which was highei 
than the rest, was accommodated with a footstool of 
ivory, curiously carved. 

No fewer than four silver candelabras, holding 
great waxen torches, served to illuminate this apart 
ment. Yet let not modern beauty envy the magnif 
icence of a Saxon princess. The walls of the apart 
ment were so ill finished and so full of crevices, tha 
the rich hangings shook to the night blast, and, ii 
despite of a sort of screen intended to protect then 
from the wind, the flame of the torches streame< 
sideways into the air, like the unfurled pennon of j 
chieftain. Magnificence there was, with some rud< 



IVANHOE 


71 


attempt at taste; but of comfort there was little, and, 
being unknown, it was unmissed. 

The Lady Rowena, with three of her attendants 
standing at her back, and arranging her hair ere she 
lay down to rest, was seated in the sort of throne 
already mentioned, and looked as if born to exact 
general homage. The Pilgrim/acknowledged her 
claim to it by a low genuflection. 

“Rise, Palmer,” said she graciously. “The de¬ 
fender of the absent has a right to favorable recep¬ 
tion from all who value truth, and honor manhood.” 
She then said to her train, “Retire, excepting only 
Eigitha; I would speak with this holy Pilgrim.” 

The maidens, without leaving the apartment, re¬ 
tired to its further extremity, and sat down on a 
small bench against the wall, where they remained 
mute as statues, though at such a distance that their 
whispers could not have interrupted the conversa¬ 
tion of their mistress. 

“Pilgrim,” said the lady, after a moment’s paus^, 
during which she seemed uncertain how to address 
him, “you this night mentioned a name--I mean,” 
she said, with a degree of effort, “the name of Ivan¬ 
hoe, in the halls where by nature and kindred it 
should have sounded most acceptably; and yet, such 
is the perverse course of fate, that of many whose 
hearts must have throbbed at the sound, I, only, 
dare ask you where, and in what condition, you left 
him of whom you spoke.—We heard that, having 
remained in Palestine, on account of his impaired 
health, after the departure of the English army, he 
had experienced the persecution of the French fac¬ 
tion, to whom the Templars are known to be at¬ 
tached.” 

“I know little of the Knight of Ivanhoe,” answered 
the Palmer, with a troubled voice. I would I knew 




72 


Ivan hoe 


him better, since you, lady, are interested in his fate. 
He hath, I believe, surmounted the persecution of his 
enemies in Palestine, and is on the eve of returning 
to England, where you, lady, must know better than 
I, what is his chance of happiness.’' 

The Lady Rowena sighed deeply, and asked more 
particularly when the Knight of Ivanhoe might be 
expected in his native country, and whether he would 
not be exposed to great dangers by the road. On the 
first point, the Palmer professed ignorance; on the 
second, he said that the voyage might be safely made 
by the way of Venice and Genoa, and from thence 
through France to England. “Ivanhoe,” he said, 
“was so well acquainted with the language and man¬ 
ners of the French, that there was no fear of his in¬ 
curring any hazard during that part of his travels.” 

“Would to God,” said the Lady Rowena. “he were 
here safely arrived, and able to bear arms in the 
approaching tourney, in which the chivalry of this 
land are expected to display their address and valor. 
Should Athelstane of Coningsburgh obtain the prize, 
Ivanhoe is like to hear evil tidings when he reaches 
England.—How looked he, stranger, when you last 
saw him? Had disease laid her hand heavy upon his 
strength and comeliness?” 

“He was darker,” said the Palmer, “and thinner, 
than when he came from Cyprus 1 in the train of 
Cceur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on his 
brow; but I approached not his presence, because he 
is unknown to me.” 

“He will,” said the lady, “I fear, find little in his 
native land to clear those clouds from his counten¬ 
ance. Thanks, good Pilgrim, for your information 
concerning the companion of my childhood.—Maid- 
ens,” s he said, “draw near—offer the sleeping cup to 


’Conquered by Richard on his way to Palestine. 




IVANHOE 


73 


this holy man, whom I will no longer detain from 
repose.” 

One of the maidens presented a silver cup, con¬ 
taining a rich mixture of wine and spice, which 
Rowena barely put to her lips. It was then offered 
to the Palmer, who after a low obeisance, tasted a 
few drops. 

“Accept this alms, friend,” continued the lady, 
offering a piece of gold, “in acknowledgment of thy 
painful travail, and of the shrines thou hast visited/’ 

The Palmer received the boon with another low 
reverence, and followed Elgitha out of the apartment. 

in the anteroom he found his attendant Anwold, 
who, taking the torch from the hand of the waiting- 
maid, conducted him w T ith more haste than ceremony 
to an exterior and ignoble part of the building, where 
a number of small apartments, or rather cells, served 
for sleeping places to the lower order of domestics, 
and to strangers of mean degree. 

“In which of these sleeps the Jew?” said the 
Pilgrim. 

“The unbelieving dog,” answered Anwold, “kennels 
in the cell next your holiness.—St. Dunstan, how it 
must be scraped and cleansed ere it be again fit for 
a Christian!” 

“And where sleeps Gurth the swineherd?” said 
the stranger. 

“Gurth,” replied the bondsman, “sleeps in the cell 
on your right, as the Jew on that to your left; you 
serve to keep the child of cicumcision separate from 
the abomination of his tribe. You might have 
occupied a more honorable place had you accepted 
of Oswald's invitation.” 

“It is as well as it is,” said the Palmer; “the com¬ 
pany, even of a Jew, can hardly spread contamina¬ 
tion through an oaken partition.” 


74 


IVANHOE 


So saying, he entered the cabin allotted to him, 
ana\taking the torch from the domestic’s hand, 
thanked him and wished him good-night. Having shut 
the door of his cell, he placed the torch in a candle¬ 
stick made of wood, and looked around his sleeping 
apartment, the furniture of which was of the most 
simple kind. It consisted of a rude wooden stool, and , 
still ruder hutch or bed-frame, stuffed with clean 
straw, and accommodated with two or three sheep¬ 
skins by way of fred-clothes. 

The Palmer, having extinguished his torch, threw ; 
himself, without taking oif any part of his clothes, 
on this rude couch, and slept, or at least retained 
his recumbent posture, till the earliest sunbeams 
found their way through the little grated window, 
which served at once to admit both air and light to 
his uncomfortable cell. He then started up, and 
after repeating his matins, and adjusting his dress, 
he left it, and entered that of Isaac the Jew, lifting 
the latch as gently as he could. 

The inmate was lying in troubled slumber upon a 
couch similar to that on which the Palmer himself 
had passed the night. Such parts of his dress as the 
Jew had laid aside on the preceding evening, were 
disposed carefully around his person, as if to pre¬ 
vent the hazard of their being carried off during his 
slumbers. There was a trouble on his brow amount¬ 
ing almost to agony. His hands and arms moved 
convulsively, as if struggling with the nightmare: 
and besides several ejaculations in Hebrew, the fol¬ 
lowing were distinctly heard in the Norman English, 
or mixed language of the country: “For the sake 
of the God of Abraham, spare an unhappy old man! 

I am poor, I am penniless—should your irons 
wrench my limbs asunder, I could not gratify you!” 

The Palmer awaited not the end of the Jew’s 






IVANHOE 


75 


vision, but stirred him with his pilgrim’s staff. The 
touch probably associated, as is usual, with some of 
the apprehensions excited by his dream; for the old 
man started up, his gray hair standing almost erect 
upon his head, and, huddling some part of his gar¬ 
ments about him, while he held the detached pieces 
with the tenacious grasp of a falcon, he fixed upon 
the Palmer his keen black eyes, expressive of wild 
surprise and. of bodily apprehension. 

“Fear nothing from me, Isaac,” said the Palmer; 
“I come as your friend.” 

“The God of Israel requite you,” said the Jew, 
greatly relieved: “I dreamed—But Father Abraham 
be praised, it was but a dream.” Then, collecting 
himself, he added in his usual tone, “And what may 
it be your pleasure to want at so early an hour with 
the poor Jew?” 

“It is to tell you,” said the Palmer, “that if you 
leave not this mansion instantly, and travel not 
with some haste, your journey may prove a danger¬ 
ous one.” 

“Holy father!” said the Jew, “whom could it in¬ 
terest to endanger so poor a wretch as I am?” 

“The purpose you can best guess,” said the Pil¬ 
grim; “but rely on this, that when the Templar 
crossed the hall yesternight, he spoke to his Mus¬ 
sulman slaves in the Saracen language, which I 
well understand, and charged them this morning to 
watch the journey of the Jew, to seize upon him 
when at a convenient distance from the mansion, 
and to conduct him to the castle of Philip de Mal- 
voisin, or to that of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf.” 

It is impossible to describe the extremity of 
terror which seized upon the Jew at this informa¬ 
tion, and seemed at once to overpower his whole 
faculties. His arms fell down to his sides, and his 




76 


IVANHOE 


head drooped on his breast, his knees bent under 
his weight, every nerve and muscle of his frame 
seemed to collapse and lose its energy, and he sunk 
at the foot of the Palmer, not in the fashion of one 
who intentionally stoops, kneels, or prostrates him¬ 
self to excite compassion, but like a man borne 
down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible 
force, which crushes him to the earth without the 
power of resistance. 

“Holy God of Abraham!” was his first exclama¬ 
tion, folding and elevating his wrinkled hands, but 
without raising his gray head from the pavement; 
“0 holy Moses! 0 blessed Aaron! the dream is not 
dreamed for naught, and the vision cometh not in 
vain! I feel their irons already tear my sinews! I 
feel the rack pass over my body like the saws, and 
harrows, and axes of iron over the men of Rabbah, 1 
and of the cities of the children of Ammon!” 

“Stand up, Isaac, and hearken to me,” said the 
Palmer, who viewed the extremity of his distress 
with a compassion in which contempt was largely 
mingled; “you have cause for your terror, consider¬ 
ing how your brethren have been used, in order to 
extort from them their hoards, both by princes and 
nobles, but stand up, I say, and I will point out to 
you the means of escape. Leave this mansion in¬ 
stantly, while its inmates sleep sound, after the last 
night’s revel. I will guide you by the secret paths 
of the forest, known as well to me as to any for¬ 
ester that ranges it, and I will not leave you till 
you are under safe conduct of some chief or baron 
going to the tournament, whose good-will you will 
have probably the means of securing.” 

As the ears of Isaac received the hopes of escape 


*11 Samuel XII, 29, 31; I Chronicles XX, 3. 



IVANHOE 


77 


which this speech intimated, he began gradually, 
and inch by inch, as it were, to raise himself up 

I from the ground, until he fairly rested upon his 
knees, throwing back his long gray hair and beard, 
and fixing his keen black eyes upon the Palmer’s 
face, with a look expressive at once of hope and 
fear, not unmingled with suspicion. But when he 
heard the concluding part of the sentence, his or¬ 
iginal terror appeared to revive in full force, and 
he dropt once more on his face, exclaiming, “I 
j possess the means of securing good-will! alas! 
I there is but one road to the favor of a Christian, 
and how can the poor Jew find it, whom extortions 
have already reduced to the misery of Lazarus?” 1 
Then, as if suspicion had overpowered his other 
feelings, he suddenly exclaimed, “For the love of 
God, young man, betray me not—for the sake of 
the Great Father who made us all, Jew as well as 
Gentile, Israelite, and Ishmaelite 2 —do me no treas¬ 
on! I have not means to secure the good-will of a 
Christian beggar, were he rating it at a single 
penny.” As he spoke these last words, he raised 
himself, and grasped the Palmer’s mantle with a 
look of the most earnest entreaty. The Pilgrim ex¬ 
tricated himself, as if there were contamination in 
the touch. 

“Wert thou loaded with all the wealth of thy 
tribe,” he said, “what interest have I to injure 
thee?—In this dress I am vowed to poverty, nor do 
I change it for aught save a horse and a coat of 
mail. Yet think not that I care for thy company, 
or propose myself advantage by it; remain here if 

^uke XVI. 19-31. Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus. 
Children of the son of Hagar and Abraham who were 
treated as outcasts by the children of Israel, perhaps here 

in the sense of Gentile. 








78 


IVANHOE 


thou wilt—Cedric the Saxon may protect thee.” 

“Alas!” said the Jew, “he will not let me travel 
in his train—Saxon or Norman will be equally 
ashamed of the poor Israelite, and to travel by my¬ 
self through the domains of Philip de Malvoisin 
and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf—Good youth, I will 
go with you!—Let us haste—let us gird up our 
loins—let us flee!—Here is thy staff, why wilt thou 
tarry?” 

“I tarry not,” said the Pilgrim, giving way to the 
urgency of his companion; “but I must secure the 
means of leaving this place—follow me.” 

He led the way to the adjoining cell, which, as 
the reader is apprised, was occupied by Gurth the 
swineherd—“Arise, Gurth,” said the Pilgrim, “arise 
quickly. Undo the postern gate, and let out the Jew 
and me.” 

Gurth, whose occupation, though now held so 
mean, gave him as much consequence in Saxon 
England as that of Eumaeus in Ithaca, 1 was of¬ 
fended by the familiar and commanding tone as¬ 
sumed by the Palmer. “The Jew leaving Rother- 
wood,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, and 
looking superciliously at him without quitting his 
pallet, “and traveling in company with the Palmer 
to boot-” 

“I should as soon have dreamt,” said Wamba, 
who entered the apartment at the instant, “of his 
stealing away with a gammon of bacon.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Gurth, again laying down 
his head on the wooden log which served him for 
a pillow, “both Jew and Gentile must be content to 
abide the opening of the great gate—we suffer no 

Swineherd in Ithaca, the home of Ulysses. 

Question : Does the Palmer have any motive in being 
kind to the Jew? 




IVANHOE 


79 


visitors to depart by stealth at these unseasonable 
hours.” 

“Nevertheless,” said the Pilgrim, in a command¬ 
ing tone, “you will not, I think, refuse me that 
favor.” 

So saying, he stooped over the bed of the recum¬ 
bent swineherd, and whispered something in his ear 
; in Saxon. Gurth started up as if electrified. The 
jPirgrim, raising his finger in an attempt as if 
express caution, added, “Gurth, beware—thou art 
wont to be prudent. I say, undo the postern—thou 
shalt know more anon.” 

With hasty alacrity Gurth obeyed him, while 
Wamba and the Jew followed, both wondering at 
the sudden change in the swineherd’s demeanor. 

“My mule, my mule!” said the Jew, as soon as 
! they stood without the postern. 

“Fetch him his mule,” said the Pilgrim; “and, 
hearest thou,—let me have another, that I may bear 
him company till he is beyond these parts—I will 
return it safely to some of Cedric’s train at Ashby. 
And do thou”—he whispered the rest in Gurth’s 
ear. 

“Willingly, most willingly shall it be done,” said 
Gurth, and instantly departed to execute the com¬ 
mission. 

“I wish I knew,” said Wamba, when his com¬ 
rade’s back was turned, “what you Palmers learn 
in the Holy Land.” 

“To say our orisons, fool,” answered the Pil¬ 
grim, “to repent our sins, and to mortify ourselves 
with fastings, vigils, and long prayers.” 

“Something more potent than that,” answered 
the Jester, “for when would repentance or prayer 

Question t What did the Palmer whisper in Gurth’s 

ear? 







80 


IVANHOE 


make Gurth do a courtesy, or fasting or vigil per¬ 
suade him to lend you a mule?—I trow you might 
as well have told his favorite black boar of thy 
vigils and penance, and wouldst have gotten as 
civil an answer.” 

“Go to,” said the Pilgrim, “thou art but a Saxon 
fool.” 

“Thou sayest well,” said the Jester; “had I been 
born a Norman, as I think thou art, I would have 
had luck on my side, and been next door to a wise 
man.” 

At this moment Gurth appeared on the opposite 
side of the moat with the mules. The travelers 
crossed the ditch upon a drawbridge of only two 
planks’ breadth, the narrowness of which was 
matched with the straitness of the postern, and 
with a little wicket in the exterior palisade, which 
gave access to the forest. No sooner had they 
reached the mules, than the Jew, with hasty and 
trembling hands, secured behind the saddle a small 
bag of blue buckram, which he took from under his 
cloak, containing, as he muttered, “a change of 
raiment—only a change of raiment.” Then get¬ 
ting upon the animal with more alacrity and haste 
than could have been anticipated from his years, 
he lost no time in so disposing of the skirts of 
his gaberdine as to conceal completely from ob¬ 
servation the burden which he had thus deposited 
en croupe. 1 

The Pilgrim mounted with more deliberation, 
reaching, as he departed, his hand to Gurth, wh|0 
kissed it with the utmost possible veneration. The 
swineherd stood gazing after the travelers until 
they were lost under the boughs of the forest path, 


Behind the saddla 




IVANHOE 


81 


! when he was disturbed from his reverie by the voice 
of Wamba. 

“Knowest thou,” said the Jester, “my good 
friend Gurth, that thou art strangely courteous 
land most unwontedly pious on this summer morn¬ 
ing? I would I were a black Prior or a barefoot 
Palmer, to avail myself of thy unwonted zeal and 
courtesy—certes, I would make more out of it than 
a kiss of the hand.” 

“Thou art no fool thus far, Wamba,” answered 
Gurth, “though thou arguest from appearances, and 
the wisest of us can do no more.—But it is time to 
look after my charge.” 

So saying, he turned back to the mansion, at¬ 
tended by the Jester. 

Meanwhile the travelers continued to press on 
their journey with a dispatch which argued the 
axtremity of the Jew’s fears, since persons at his 
age are seldom fond of rapid motion. The Palmer, 
to whom every path and outlet in the wood ap¬ 
peared to be familiar, led the way through the 
most devious paths, and more than once excited 
anew the suspicion of the Israelite, that he intended 
to betray him into some ambuscade of his enemies. 

His doubts might have been indeed pardoned; 
for, except perhaps the flying fish, there was no 
race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, 
who were the objects of such an unintermitting, 
general, and relentless persecution as the Jews of 
this period. Upon the slightest and most unreason¬ 
able pretenses, as well as upon accusations the 
most absurd and groundless, their persons and 
property were exposed to every turn of popular 
fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, how- 

Question : Had Isaac been telling the truth about not 

having any money? 






Ivan hoe 


ever adverse these races were to each other, con¬ 
tended which should look with greatest detestation 
upon a people, whom it was accounted a point of 
religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, 
and to persecute. The kings of the Norman race, 
and the independent nobles, who followed their ex¬ 
ample in all acts of tyranny, maintained against 
this devoted people a persecution of a more regu¬ 
lar, calculated, and self-interested kind. It is a 
well-known story of King John, that he confined a 
wealthy Jew in one of the royal castles, and daily 
caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until, when 
the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, 
he consented to pay a large sum, which it 
was the tyrant’s object to extort from him. The 
little ready money which was in the country was 
chiefly in possession of this persecuted people, and 
the nobility hesitated not to follow the example of 
their sovereign, in wringing it from them by every 
species of oppression, and even personal torture. 
Yet the passive courage inspired by the love of 
gain, induced the Jews to dare the various evils to 
which they were subjected, in consideration of the 
immense profits which they were enabled to realize 
in a country naturally so wealthy as England. In 
spite of every kind of discouragement, and even of 
the special court of taxations already mentioned, 
called the Jews’ Exchequer, erected for the very 
purpose of despoiling and distressing them, the 
Jews increased, multiplied, and accumulated huge 
sums, which they transferred from one hand to an¬ 
other by means of bills of exchange 1 —an invention 
for which commerce is said to be indebted to them, 
and w hich enabled them to transfer their wealth 

'These were orders, generally in duplicate, ordering peo¬ 



ple in distant parts to pay money. 






Ivan hoe 


83 


from land to land, that, when threatened with op¬ 
pression in one country, their treasure might be 
secured in another. 

The obstinacy and avarice of the Jews being thus 
in a measure placed in opposition to the fanati¬ 
cism and tyranny of those under whom they lived, 
seemed to increase in proportion to the persecution 
with which they were visited; and the immense 
wealth they usually acquired in commerce, while it 
frequently placed them in danger, was at other 
| times used to extend their influence, and to secure 
to them a certain degree of protection. On these 
j terms they lived; and their character, influenced 
1 accordingly, was watchful, suspicious, and timid— 

! yet obstinate, uncomplying, and skillful in evading 
the dangers to which they were exposed. 

When the travelers had pushed on at a rapid rate 
through many devious paths, the Palmer at length 
broke silence. 

“That large, decayed oak,” he said, “marks the 
boundaries over which Front-de-Boeuf claims au¬ 
thority—we are long since far from those of Mai- 
voisin. There is now no fear of pursuit.” 

“May the w T heels of their chariots be taken off,” 
said the Jew, “like those of the host of Pharoah,’ 
that they may drive heavily. But leave me not, 
good Pilgrim. Think but of that fierce and savage 
Templar, with his Saracen slaves—they will regard 
neither territory, nor manor, nor lordship.” 

“Our road,” said the Palmer, “should here separ¬ 
ate ! for it beseems not men of my character and 
thine to travel together longer than needs must be. 
Besides, what succor couldst thou have from me, a 
peaceful Pilgrim, against two armed heathens?” 


3 Exodus XIV, 25. 






IVANIIOE 


84 • 

“0 good youth,” answered the Jew, “thou canst 
defend me, and I know thou wouldst. Poor as I 
am, I will requite it—not with money, for money, 
so help me, my Father Abraham, I have none— 
but—” 

“Money and recompense,” said the Palmer, in¬ 
terrupting him, “I have already said I require not 
of thee. Guide thee I can, and it may be, even in 
some sort defend thee; since to protect a Jew 
against a Saracen, can scarce be accounted un¬ 
worthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will see 
thee safe under some fitting escort. We are now 
not far from the town of Sheffield, where thou 
mayest easily find many of thy tribe with w T hom 
to take refuge.” 

“The blessing of Jacob be upon thee, good 
youth!” said the Jew; “in Sheffield I can harbor 
with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means of 
traveling forth with safety.” 

“Be it so,” said the Palmer; “at Sheffield then 
we part, and half-an-hour’s riding will bring us in 
sight of that town.” 

The half hour was spent in perfect silence on 
both parts; the Pilgrim perhaps disdaining to ad¬ 
dress the Jew, except in case of absolute neces¬ 
sity, and the Jew not presuming to force a con¬ 
versation with a person whose journey to the Holy 
Sepulcher gave a sort of sanctity to his character. 
They paused on the top of a gently rising bank, and 
the Pilgrim, pointing to the town of Sheffield, which 
lay beneath them, repeated the words, “Here, then, 
we part.” 

“Not till you have had the poor Jew’s thanks,” 
said Isaac; “for I presume not to ask you to go 
with me to my kinsman Zareth’s, who might aid 
me with some means of repaying your good offices/' 




IVANHOE 


85 


“I have already said,” answered the Pilgrim, 
“that I desire no recompense. If, among the huge 
list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my sake, spare 
the gyves and the dungeon to some unhappy 
Christian who stands in thy danger, 1 I shall hold 
this morning’s service to thee well bestowed.” 

“Stay, stay,” said the Jew, laying hold of his 
garment; “something would I do more than this, 
something for thyself.—God knows the Jew is poor 
—yes, Isaac is the beggar of his tribe—but forgive 
me should I guess what thou most lacl^est at this 
moment.” 

“If thou wert to guess truly,” said the Palmer, 
“it is what thou canst not supply, wert thou as 
wealthy as thou sayeth thou art poor.” 

“As I say?” echoed the Jew; “0! believe it, I 
say but the truth; I am a plundered, indebted, dis¬ 
tressed man. Hard hands have wrung from me my 
goods, my money, my ships, and all that I pos¬ 
sessed. —Yet I can tell thee what thou lackest, 
and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now 
is for a horse and armor.” 

The Palmer started, and turned suddenly towards 
the Jew.—“What fiend prompted that guess?” said 
he, hastily. 

“No matter,” said the Jew, smiling, “so that it 
be a true one—and, as I can guess thy want, so I 
can supply it.” 

“But consider,” said the Palmer, “my character, 
my dress, my vow.” 

“I know you Christians,” replied the Jew, “and 
that the noblest of you will take the staff and sand¬ 
al in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit 
the graves of dead men.” 


Tn thy power. 




86 


IVANHOE 


“Blaspheme not, Jew,” said the Pilgrim, sternly. 

“Forgive me,” said the Jew; “I spoke rashly. 
But there dropt words from you last night and this 
morning, that, like sparks from flint, showed the 
metal within; and in the bosom of that Palmer’s 
gown is hidden a knight’s chain and spurs of gold. 
They glanced as you stooped over my bed in the 
morning.” 

The Pilgrim could not forbear smilling. “Were 
thy garments searched by as curious an eye, Isaac,” 
said he, “what discoveries might not be made?” 

“No more of that,” said the Jew, changing color; 
and drawing forth his writing materials in haste, 
as if to stop the conversation, he began to write 
upon a piece of paper which he supported on the 
top of his yellow cap, without dismounting from his 
mule. When he had finished, he delivered the scroll, 
which was in the Hebrew character, to the Pil¬ 
grim. saying, “In the town of Leicester all men 
know the rich Jew, Kirjath Jairam of Lombardy; 
give him this scroll—he hath on sale six Milan 1 
harnesses, the worst would suit a crowned head— 
ten goodly steeds, the worst might mount a king, 
were he to do battle for his throne. Of these he 
will give thee thy choice, with everything else that 
can furnish thee forth for the tournament; when 
it is over, thou wilt return them safely—unless 
thou shouldst have wherewith to pay their value 
to the owner.” 

“But, Isaac,” said the Pilgrim, smiling, “dost 
thou know that in these sports, the arms and steed 
of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit to his 


^riien capital of Lombardy of Northern Italy. 

Question : How did Isaac guess what the Palmer - had 
been wanting? 







IVANHOE 



yictor? Now I may be unfortunate, and so lose 
what I cannot replace or repay.” 

The Jew looked somewhat astounded at this pos¬ 
sibility; but collecting his courage, he replied 
hastily: “No—no—no—It is impossible—I will not 
think so. The blessing of Our Father will be upon 
thee. Thy lance will be powerful as the rod of 
Moses.” 

So saying, he was turning his mule’s head away, 
when the Palmer,, in his turn, took hold of his 
gaberdine. “Nay, but, Isaac, thou knowest not all 
the risk. The steed may be slain, the armor in- 
jjured—for I will spare neither horse nor man. 
■Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for noth¬ 
ing; something there must be paid for their use.” 

The Jew twisted himself in the saddle, like a man 
in a fit of the colic; but his better feelings pre¬ 
dominated over those which were most familiar to 
him. “I care not,” he said, “I care not—let me 
go. If there is damage, it will cost you nothing—if 
there is usage money, Kirjath Jairam will forgive 
it for the sake of his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee 
well!—Yet hark thee, good youth,” said he, turning 
about; “thrust thyself not too forward into this 
vain hurly-burly—I speak not for endangering the 
steed, and coat of armor, but for the sake of thine 
own life and limbs.” 

“Gramercy for thy caution,” said the Palmer, 
again smiling; “I will use thy courtesy frankly, and 
it will go hard with me but I will requite it.” 

They parted and took different roads for the town 
of Sheffield. 




CHAPTER VII 


Knights, with a long retinue of their squires, 

In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires; 

One laced the helm, another held the lance, 

A third the shining buckler did advance. 

The courser paw’d the ground with restless feet, 

And snorting foam’d and champ’d the golden bit. 

The smiths and armorers on palfreys ride, 

Files in their hands, and hammers at their side; 

And nails for loosen’d spears, and thongs for shields provide. 
The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands; 

And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands. 

Palamon and Arcite. 

The condition of the English nation was at this 
time sufficiently miserable. King Richard was ab¬ 
sent a prisoner, and in the power of the perfidious 
and cruel Duke of Austria . 1 Even the very place 
of his captivity was uncertain, and his fate but 
very imperfectly known to the generality of his 
subjects, who were, in the meantime, a prey to 
every species of subaltern oppression . 2 

Prince John, in league with Philip of France, 
Cceur-de-Lion’s mortal enemy was using every 
species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to 
prolong the captivity of his brother Richard, to 
whom he stood indebted for so many favors. In 
the meantime, he was strengthening his own faction 
in the kindgom, of which he proposed to dispute 
the succession, in case of the King’s death, with 


1 While returning from a crusade, Richard was taken 
prisoner. He was held by the Duke of Austria much to 
the delight of Prince John, who preferred to hold control 
of the kingdom. In 1194, he escaped and returned to Eng¬ 
land. 

Oppression by those under the king. 



IVANHOE 


89 


! 

I the legitimate heir, Arthur, Duke of Brittany, son 
j of Geoffrey Plantaganet, the elder brother of John. 
(This usurpation, it is well known, he afterward 
effected. His own character being light, profligate, 
-and perfidious, John easily attached to his person 
and faction, not only all who had reason to dread 
the resentment of Richard for criminal proceed- 
! ings during his absence, but also the numerous 
! class of “lawless resolutes,” 1 whom the crusades 
had turned back on their country, accomplished in 
the vices of the East, impoverished in substance, 
and hardened in character, and who placed their 
hopes of harvest in civil commotion. 

To these causes of public distress and apprehen- 
s sion, must be added the multitude of outlaws, who, 
driven to despair by the oppression of the feudal 
nobility, and the severe exercise of the forest 
laws, banded together in large gangs, and, keeping 
possession of the forests and the wastes, set at 
defiance the justice and magistracy of the country. 
The nobles themselves, each fortified within his 
own castle, and playing the petty sovereign over 
his own dominions, were the leaders of bands 
scarce less lawless and oppressive than those of 
the avowed depredators. To maintain these re¬ 
tainers, and to support the extravagance and mag¬ 
nificence which their pride induced them to affect, 
the nobility borrowed sums of money from the Jews 
at the most usurious interest, which gnawed into 
their estates like consuming cankers, scarce to be 
cured unless when circumstances gave them an 
opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon 
their creditors some act of unprincipled violence. 

Under the various burdens imposed by this un¬ 
happy state of affairs, the people of England suf- 


1 Desperadoes. 







90 


IVANHOE 


fered deeply for the present, and had yet more 
dreadful cause to fear for the future. To augment 
their misery, a contagious disorder of a dangerous 
nature spread through the land; and, rendered 
more virulent by the uncleanness, the indifferent 
food, and the wretched lodging of the lower classes, 
swept off many whose fate the survivors were 
tempted to envy, as exempting them from the evils 
which were to come. 

Yet amid these accumulated distresses, the poor 
as well as the rich, the vulgar as well as the noble, 
in the event of a tournament, which was the grand 
spectacle of that age, felt as much interested as 
the half-starved citizen of Madrid, who has not a 
real left to buy provisions for his family, feels in 
the issue of a bull-fight. Neither duty nor infirmity 
could keep youth or age from such exhibitions. 
The Passage of Arms, as it was called, which was 
to take place at Ashby, in the county of Leicester, 
as champions of the first renown were to take the 
field in the presence of Prince John himself, who 
was expected to grace the lists, had attracted uni¬ 
versal attention, and an immense confluence of 
persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed 
morning to the place of combat. 

The scene was singularly romantic. On the verge 
of a wood, which approached to within a mile of 
the town of Ashby, was an extensive meadow, of 
the finest and most beautiful green turf, surrounded 
on one side by the forest, and fringed on the other 
by straggling oak-trees, some of which had grown 
to an immense size. The ground, as if fashioned 
on purpose for the martial display which was in¬ 
tended, sloped gradually down on all sides to a 
level bottom, which was inclosed for the lists with 
strong palisades, forming a space of a quarter of a 


IVANHOE 


91 


mile in length, and about half as broad. The form 
of the inclosure was an oblong square, save that the 
corners were considerably rounded off, in order to 
afford more convenience for the spectators. The 
openings for the entry of the combatants were at 
the northern and southern extremities of the lists, 
accessible by strong wooden gates, each wide 
enough to admit two horsemen riding abreast. At 
each of these portals were stationed two heralds, 
attended by six trumpets, as many pursuivants , 1 and 
a strong body of men-at-arms for maintaining or¬ 
der, and ascertaining the quality of the knights 
who proposed to engage in this martial game. 

On a platform beyond the southern entrance, 
formed by a natural elevation of the ground, were 
pitched five magnificent pavilions, adorned with 
pennons of russet and black, the chosen colors of 
the five knights challengers. The cords of the 
tents were of the same color. Before each pavilion 
was suspended the shield of the knight by whom 
it was occupied, and beside it stood his squire, 
quaintly disguised as a salvage 2 or silvan man, or 
in some other fantastic dress, according to the 
taste of his master, and the character he was 
pleased to assume during the game . 3 The central 
pavilion, as the place of honor, had been assigned 
to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose renown in all 
games of chivalry, no less than his connection with 
the knights who had undertaken this Passage of 

1 Attendants to the heralds. 

^Savage, a woodsman. 

3 “This sort of masquerade is supposed to have occasioned 
the introduction of supporters into the science of heraldry.” 
—Scott. 

Question: What events to-day are similar to a tourna¬ 
ment in the interests of the people? 





92 


IVANHOE 


Arms, had occasioned him to be eagerly received 
into the company of the challengers, and even ad¬ 
opted as their chief and leader, though he had so 
recently joined them. On one side of his tent 
were pitched those of Reginald Front-de-Bceuf and 
Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was the 
pavilion of Hugh de Grantmesnil, a noble baron in 
the vicinity, whose ancestor had been Lord High 
Steward of England in the time of the Conqueror, 
and his son William Rufus. Ralph de Vipont, a 
knight of St. John of Jerusalem, who had some an¬ 
cient possessions at a place called Heather near 
Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the fifth pavilion. 
From the entrance into the lists, a gently sloping 
passage, ten yards in breadth, led up to the plat¬ 
form on which the tents were pitched. It was 
strongly secured by a palisade on each side, as 
was the esplanade in front of the pavilions, and 
the whole was guarded by men-at-arms. 

The northern access to the lists terminated in a 
similar entrance of thirty feet in breadth, at the ex¬ 
tremity of which was a large inclosed space for 
such knights as might be disposed to enter the lists 
with the challengers, behind which were placed 
tents containing refreshments of every kind for 
their accommodation, with armorers, farriers, and 
other attendants, in readiness to give their services 
wherever they might be necessary. 

The exterior of the lists was in part occupied 
by temporary galleries, spread with tapestry and 
carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the 
convenience of those ladies and nobles who were 
expected to attend the tournament. A narrow 
space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave 
accommodation for yeomanry and spectators of a 
better degree than the mere vulgar, and might be 


IVANHOE 


93 


jcompared to the pit of a theater. The promiscuous 
multitude arranged themselves upon large banks 
of turf prepared for the purpose which, aided by 
the natural elevation of the ground, enabled them 
to overlook the galleries, and obtain a fair view 
into the lists. Besides the accommodation which 
these stations afforded, many hundreds had perched 
themselves on the branches of the trees which 
surrounded the meadow; and even the steeple of 
a country church, at some distance, was crowded 
with spectators. 

It only remains to notice respecting the general 
arrangement that one gallery in the very center of 
the eastern side of the lists, and consequently ex¬ 
actly opposite to the spot where the shock of the 
combat was to take place, was raised higher than 
the others, more richly decorated and graced by a 
sort of throne and canopy, on which the royal arms 
were emblazoned. Squires, pages, and yeomen in 
rich liveries waited around this place of honor, 
which was designed for Prince John and his at¬ 
tendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was an¬ 
other, elevated to the same height, on the western 
side of the lists; and more gayly, if less sumptu¬ 
ously decorated, than that destined for the Prince 
himself. A train of pages and of young maidens, 
the most beautiful who could be selected, gayly 
dressed in fancy habits of green and pink, sur¬ 
rounded a throne decorated in the same colors. 
Among pennons and flags bearing wounded hearts, 
burning hearts, bleeding hearts, bows and quivers, 
and all the commonplace emblems of the triumphs 
of Cupid, a blazoned inscription informed the spec¬ 
tators that this seat of honor was designed for 
La Royne de la Beaulte et des Amours / But who 


a The Queen of Beauty and of Love. 






94 


Ivan hoe 




was to represent the Queen of Beauty and of Love 
on the present occasion, no one was prepared to 
guess. 

Meanwhile, spectators of every description 
thronged forward to occupy their respective sta¬ 
tions, and not without many quarrels concerning 
those which they were entitled to hold. Some of 
these were settled by the men-at-arms with brief 
ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes and pom¬ 
mels of their swords being readily employed as 
arguments to convince the more refractory. Others, 
which involved the rival claims of more elevated 
persons, were determined by the heralds or by the 
two marshals of the field, William de Wyvil. and 
Stephen de Martival, who, armed at all points, rode 
up and down the lists to enforce and preserve good 
order among the spectators. 

Gradually the galleries became filled with knights 
and nobles, in their robes of peace, whose long and 
rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with the gayer 
and more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a 
greater portion than even the men themselves, 
thronged to witness a sport, which one would have 
thought too bloody and dangerous to afford their 
sex much pleasure. The lower and interior space 
was soon filled by substantial yeomen and burghers 
and such of the lesser gentry, as from modesty, pov¬ 
erty, or dubious title, durst not assume any higher 
place. It was of course amongst these that the mosl 
frequent disputes for precedence occurred. 

“Dog of an unbeliever,” said an old man, whose 
threadbare tunic bore witness to his poverty, as 
his sword, and dagger, and golden chain intimatec 
his pretensions to rank, “whelp of a she-wolf! 
darest thou press upon a Christian, and a Normal 
gentleman of the blood of Montdidier?” 


IVANHOE 


95 


This rough expostulation was addressed to no 
other than our acquaintance Isaac, who, richly and 
even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine orna¬ 
mented with lace and lined with fur, was endeavor¬ 
ing to make place in the foremost row beneath the 
gallery for his daughter, the beautiful Rebecca, 
who had joined him at Ashby, and who was now 
hanging on her father’s arm, not a little terrified 
by the popular displeasure which seemed generally 
excited by her parent’s presumption. But Isaac, 
though we have seen him sufficiently timid on other 
occasions, knew well that at present he had nothing 
to fear. It was not in places of general resort, or 
where their equals were assembled, that any avari¬ 
cious or malevolent noble durst offer him injury. 
At such meetings the Jews were under the protec¬ 
tion of the general law; and if that proved a weak 
assurance, it usually happened that there were 
among the persons assembled some barons, who, 
for their own interested motives, were ready to act 
as their protectors. On the present occasion. 
Isaac felt more than usually cqnfident, being aware 
that Prince John was even then in the very act of 
negotiating a large loan from the Jews of York, to 
be secured upon certain jewels and lands. Isaac’s 
own share in this transaction was considerable, 
and he well knew that the Prince’s eager desire 
to bring it to a conclusion would insure him his 
protection in the dilemma in which he stood. 

Emboldened by these considerations, th.e Jew pur¬ 
sued his point, and jostled the Norman Christian, 
without respect either to his descent, quality, or 
religion. The complaints of the old man, however, 
excited the indignation of the bystanders. One of 

Question: Why did Isaac have nothing to fear? 


96 


IVANHOE 


these, a stout well-set yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln- 
green , 1 having twelve arrows stuck in his belt, with 
a baldric and badge of silver, and a bow of six 
feet length in his hand, turned short round, and 
while his countenance, which his constant ex- j 
posure to weather had rendered brown as a hazel 
nut, grew darker with anger, he advised the Jew to 
remember that all the wealth he had acquired by 
sucking the blood of his miserable victims had but 
swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be 
overlooked while it kept in a corner, but would be 
crushed if it ventured into the light. This intima¬ 
tion, delivered in Norman-English with a firm voice ! 
and a stern aspect, made the Jew shrink back; and 
he would have probably withdrawn himself altogeth- 1 
er from a vicinity so dangerous, had not the atten- 
tion of every one been called to the sudden entrance j 
of Prince John, who at that moment entered the 
lists, attended by a numerous and gay train, con¬ 
sisting partly of laymen, partly of churchmen, as 
light in their dress, and as gay in their demeanor, 
as their companions. Among the latter was the I 
Prior of Jorvaulx, in the most gallant trim which a 1 
dignitary of the church could venture to exhibit. 
Fur and gold were not spared in his garments; and ; 
the point of his boots, out-heroding the preposterous ! 
fashion of the time, turned up so very far, as to be 1 
attached, not to his knees merely, but to his very 
girdle, and effectually prevented him from putting * 
his foot into the stirrup. This, however, was a slight ! 
inconvenience to the gallant Abbot, who, perhaps, 
even rejoicing in the opportunity to display his ac- 1 
complished horsemanship before so many spectators, 


A bright green cloth worn by foresters. It was made 
at Lincoln. 





Ivan hoe 


97 


specially of the fair sex, dispensed with the use 
f these supports to a timid rider. The rest of Prince 
)hn’s retinue consisted of the favorite leaders of his 
ercenary troops, some marauding barons and profli- 
ate attendants upon the court, with several Knights 
emplars and Knights of St. John. 

It may be here remarked, that the knights of these 
vvo orders were accounted hostile to King Rich- 
rd, having adopted the side of Philip of France 
i the long train of disputes which took place in 
alestine betwixt that monarch and the lion-hearted 
ling of England. It was the well-known conse- 
uence of this discord that Richard’s repeated vic- 
Dries had been rendered fruitless, his romantic at- 
impts to besiege Jerusalem disappointed, and the 
ruit of all the glory which he had acquired had 
windled into an uncertain truce with the Sultan 
aladin. With the same policy which had dictated 
he conduct of their brethren in the Holy Land, the 
'emplars and Hospitallers in England and Nor- 
landy attached themselves to the faction of Prince 
ohn, having little reason to desire the return of 
lichard to England, or the succession of Arthur, his 
egitimate heir. For the opposite reason, Prince 
ohn hated and contemned the few Saxon families of 
onsequence which subsisted in England, and omitted 
10 opportunity of mortifying and affronting them, 
eing conscious that his person and pretensions were 
;isliked by them as well as by the greater part of the 
English commons, who feared farther innovation 
ipon their rights and liberties, from a sovereign of 
ohn’s licentious and tyrannical disposition. 

Attended by this gallant equipage, himself well 
nounted, and splendidly dressed in crimson and in 
Told, bearing upon his hand a falcon, and having 
lis head covered by a rich fur bonnet, adorned with 
i circle of precious stones, from which his long 



98 


Ivan hoe 


curled hair escaped and overspread his shoulder; 
Prince John, upon a gray and high-mettled palfrej 
caracoled within the lists at the head of his jovis 
party, laughing loud with his train, and eyeing wit 
all the boldness of royal criticism the beauties wh 
adorned the lofty;galleries. 

-Those who remarked in the physiognomy of th 
Prince a dissolute audacity, mingled with extreir 
haughtiness and indifference to the feelings of otl 
ers, could not yet deny to his countenance that so; 
of comeliness which belongs to an open set of fer 
tures, well formed by nature modeled by art to tt 
usual rules of courtesy, yet so frank and honest th<* 
they seemed as if they disclaimed to conceal the na 
uraT workings of the soul. Such an expression is of 
en mistaken for manly frankness, when in truth 
arises from the reckless indifference of a libertir 
disposition, conscious of superiority of birth, < 
wealth, or of some other adventitious advantag 
totally unconnected with personal merit. To tho; 
who did not think so deeply, and they were tl 
greater number by a hundred to one, the splend< 
of Prince John’s rheno (i. e., fur tippet), the ric] 
ness of his cloak, lined with the most costly sable 
his maroquin boots and golden spurs, together wii 
the grace with which he managed his palfrey, we: 
sufficient to merit clamorous applause. 

In his joyous caracole round the lists, the atte 
tion of the Prince was called by the commotion, n 
yet subsided, which had attended the ambitio - 
movement of Isaac towards the higher places of tl 
assembly. The quick eye of Prince John instant 
recognized the Jew, but was much more agreeab 
attracted by the beautiful daughter of Zion, wh 
terrified by the tumult, clung close to the arm 
her aged father. 

. The figure; of Rebecca might indeed have cor 





IVANHOE 


99 


pared with the proudest beauties of England, even 
though it had been judged by as shrewd a connois¬ 
seur as Prince John. Her form was exquisitely sym¬ 
metrical, and was shown to advantage by a sort of 
Eastern dress, which she wore according to the 
fashion of the females of her nation. Her turban 
of yellow silk suited well with the darkness of her 
complexion. The brilliancy of her eyes, the superb 
arch of bier eyebrows, her well-formed aquiline nose, 
her teeth as white as pearl, and the profusion of her 
sable tresses, which, each arranged in its own little 
spiral of twisted curls, fell down upon as much of a 
lovely neck and bosom as a simarre of the richest 
Persian silk, exhibiting flowers in their natural 
colors embossed upon a purple ground, permitted to 
be visible—all these constituted a combination of 
loveliness, which yielded not to the most beautiful 
of the maidens who surrounded her. It is true, that 
of the golden and pearl-studded clasps, which closed 
her vest from the throat to the waist, the three up¬ 
permost were left unfastened on account of the heat, 
which something enlarged the prospect to which we 
allude. A diamond necklace, with pendants of in¬ 
estimable value, were by this means also made more 
conspicuous. The feather of an ostrich, fastened in 
her turban by an agraffe set with brilliants, was 
another distinction of the beautiful Jewess, scoffed 
and sneered at by the proud dames who sat above 
her, but secretly envied by those who affected to 
deride them. 

“By the bald scalp of Abraham,” said Prince 
John, “yonder Jewess must be the very model of 
that perfection, whose charms drove frantic the 
wisest king that ever lived! What sayest thou, Prior 
Aymer?—By the Temple of that wise king, which 




100 


IVANHOE 


our wiser brother Richard proved unable to recover* 
she is the very Bride of the Canticles !” 1 

“The Rose of Sharon 2 and the Lily of the Valley,” 
answered the Prior, in a sort of snuffling tone; “but 
your Grace must remember she is still but a Jewess.” 

“Ay!” added Prince John, without heeding him, 
“and there is my Mammon 3 of unrighteousness too— 
the Marquis of Marks, the Baron of Byzants, contest¬ 
ing for place with penniless dogs, whose threadbare 
cloaks have not a single cross in their pouches to 
keep the devil from dancing there. By the body of 
St. Mark, my prince of supplies, with his lovely 
Je\vess shall have a place in the gallery!—What is 
she, Isaac? Thy wife or thy daughter, that Eastern 
houri that thou lockest under thy arm as thou 
wouldst thy treasure-casket?” 

“My daughter Rebecca, so please your Grace,” 
answered Isaac, with a low congee, nothing embar¬ 
rassed by the Prince’s salutation, in which, however, 
there was at least as much mockery as courtesy. 

“The wiser man thou,” said John, with a peal of 
laughter, in which his gay followers obsequiously 
joined. “But, daughter or wife, she should be 
preferred according to her beauty and thy merits.— 
Who sits above there?” he continued, bending his 
eye on the gallery. “Saxon churls, lolling at their 
lazy length!—out upon them!—let them sit close, 
and make room for my prince of usurers and his 
lovely daughter. I’ll make the hinds know they 
must share the high places of the synagogue with 
those whom the synagogue properly belongs to.” 

Tho:e who occupied the gallery to whom this in¬ 
jurious and unpolite speech was addressed, were the 
family of Cedric the Saxon, with that of his ally 

*Songs of Solomon. 

2 Song of Solomon II, 1. 

8 Syrian God of Riches, used to personify worldliness. 




IVANHOE 


101 


and kinsman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a per¬ 
sonage who, on account of his descent from the last 
Saxon monarchs of England, was held in the highest 
respect by all the Saxon natives of the north of Eng¬ 
land. But with the blood of this ancient royal race, 
many of their infirmities had descended to Athel¬ 
stane. He was comely in countenance, bulky and 
strong in person, and in the flower of his age—yet 
inanimate in expression, dull-eyed, heavy-browed, 
inactive and sluggish in all his motions, and so slow 
in resolution that the soubriquet of one of his an¬ 
cestors was conferred upon him, and he was very gen¬ 
erally called Athelstane the Unready. His friends, 
and he had many, who, as well as Cedric, were 
passionately attached to him, contended that this 
sluggish temper arose not from want of courage, but 
from mere want of decision; others alleged that his 
hereditary vice of drunkenness had obscured his 
faculties, never of a very acute order, and that the 
passive courage and meek good-nature which re¬ 
mained behind were merely the dregs of a character 
that might have been deserving of praise, but of 
which all the valuable parts had flown off in the 
progress of a long course of brutal debauchery. 

It was to this person, such as we have described 
him, that the Prince addressed his imperious com¬ 
mand to make place for Isaac and Rebecca. Athel¬ 
stane, utterly confounded at an order which the 
manners and feelings of the times rendered so in¬ 
juriously insulting, unwilling to obey, yet undeter¬ 
mined how to resist, opposed only the vis inertiae 1 to 
the will of John; and, without stirring or making 
any motion whatever of obedience, opened his large 
gray eyes, and stared at the Prince with an as¬ 
tonishment which had in it something extremely 


'Sluggishness (strength of inertia). 



102 


IVANHOE 


ludicrous. But the impatient John regarded it in no 
such light. 

“The Saxon porker,” he said, “is either asleep 
or minds me not—prick him with your lance, De 
Bracy,” speaking to a knight who rode near him, 
the leader of a band of Free Companions, or Con- 
dottieri; that is, of mercenaries belonging to no 
particular nation, but attached for the time to any 
prince by whom they were paid. There was a mur¬ 
mur even among the attendants of Prince John; but 
De Bracy, whose profession freed him from all 
scruples, extended his long lance over the space 
which separated the gallery from the lists, and would 
have executed the commands of the Prince before 
Athelstane the Unready had recovered presence of 
mind sufficient even to draw back his person from 
the weapon, had not Cedric, as prompt as his com¬ 
panion was tardy, unsheathed, with the speed of 
lightning, the short sword which he wore, and at a 
single blow severed the point of the lance from the 
handle. The blood rushed into the countenance of 
Prince John. He swore one of his deepest oaths, 
and was about to utter some threat corresponding in 
violence, when he was diverted from his purpose, 
partly by his own attendants, who gathered arornd 
him conjuring him to be patient, partly by a general 
exclamation of the crowd, uttered in loud applause 
of the spirited conduct of Cedric. The Prince rolled 
his eyes in indignation, as if to collect some safe and 
easy victim; and chancing to encounter the firm 
glance of the same archer whom we have already no¬ 
ticed, and who seemed to persist in his gesture of 
applause, in spite of the frowning aspect which the 
Prince bent upon him, he demanded his reason for 
clamoring thus. 



Ivan hoe 


103 


| “I always add my hollo, ,n said the yeoman, “when 

see a good shot, or a gallant blow.” 

“Sayest thou?” answered the Prince; “then thou 
:anst hit the white * 2 thyself, I’ll warrant.” 

“A woodsman’s mark, and at woodsman’s distance 
' can hit,” answered the yeoman. 

“And Wat Tyrrel’s mark , 3 at a hundred yards,” 
jaid a voice from behind, but by whom uttered could 
tot be discerned. 

This allusion to the fate of William Rufus, his 
grandfather, at once incensed and alarmed Prince 
fohn. He satisfied himself, however, with command¬ 
ing the men-at-arms, who surrounded the lists, to 
keep an eye on the braggart, pointing to the yeoman, 

“By St. Grizzel ,” 4 he added, “we will try his own 
skill, who is so ready to give his voice to the feats 
of others!” 

“I shall not fly the trial,” said the yeoman, with 
the composure which marked his whole deportment. 

“Mjeanwhile, stand up, ye Saxon churls,” said the 
fiery Prince; “for, by the light of Heaven, since I 
have said it, the Jew shall have his seat amongst 

ye!” . . 

“By no means, an it please your Grace!—it is 
not fit for such as we to sit with the rulers of the 
land,” said the Jew; whose ambition for precedence, 
though it had led him to dispute place with the ex¬ 
tenuated and impoverished descendant of the line 
of Montdidier, by no means stimulated him to an 
intrusion upon the privileges of the wealthy Saxons. 

“Up, infidel dog, when I command you,” said 


Applause. 

2 The bull’s eye of the target. 

Supposed to have killed William Rufus by an arrow 
while they were hunting. 

‘Model patience and wifely obedience. 






104 


IVANHOE 


Prince John, “or I will have thy swarthy hide stript 
off, and tanned for horse-furniture!” 

Thus urged, the Jew began to ascend the steep and 
narrow steps which led up to the gallery. 

“Let me see,” said the Prince, “who dare stop 
him!” fixing his eye on Cedric, whose attitude inti¬ 
mated his intention to hurl the Jew down headlong. 

The catastrophe was prevented by the clown 
Wamba, who, springing betwixt his master and Isaac, 
and exclaiming, in answer to the Prince’s defiance, 
“Marry, that will I!” opposed to the beard of the 
Jew a shield of brawn, which he plucked from be¬ 
neath his cloak, and with which, doubtless, he had 
furnished himself, lest the tournament should have 
proved longer than his appetite could endure abstin¬ 
ence. Finding the abomination of his tribe opposed 
to his very nose, while the Jester, at the same time, 
flourished his wooden sword above his head, the Jew 
recoiled, missed his footing, and rolled down the 
steps,—an excellent jest to the spectators, who set up 
a loud laughter, in which Prince John and his at¬ 
tendants heartily joined. 

“Deal me the prize, cousin Prince,” said Wamba; 
“I have vanquished my foe in fair fight with sword 
and shield,” he added, brandishing the brawn in one 
hand and the wooden sword in the other. 

“Who and what art thou, noble champion?” said 
Prince John, still laughing. 

“A fool by right of descent,” answered the Jester; 
“I am Wamba, the son of Witless, who was the son 
of Weatherbrain, who was the son of an Alderman.” 

“Make room for the Jew in front of the lower 
ring,” said Prince John, not unwilling perhaps to 
seize an apology to desist from his original purpose; 
“to place the vanquished beside the victor were false 
heraldry.” 

“Knave upon fool were worse,” answered the 


IVANHOE 


105 


Jester, “and Jew upon bacon worst of all.” 

“Gramercy! good fellow,” cried Prince John, “thou 
pleasest me—Here, Isaac, lend me a handful of 
byzants.” 

As the Jew, stunned by the request, afraid to re¬ 
fuse, and unwilling to comply, fumbled in the furred 
bag which hung by his girdle, and was perhaps en¬ 
deavoring to ascertain how few coins might pass for 
a handful, the Prince stooped from his jennet and 
settled Isaac’s doubts by snatching the pouch itself 
from his side; and flinging to Wamba a couple of 
the gold pieces which it contained, he pursued his 
career round the lists, leaving the Jew to the derision 
of those around him, and himself receiving as much 
applause from the spectators as if he had done some 
honest and honorable action. 


CHAPTER VIII 


At this the challenger with fierce defy 

His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply; 

With clangor rings the fieM, resounds the vaulted sky. 
Their visors closed, their lances in the rest, 

Or at the helmet pointed, or the crest, 

They vanish from the barrier, speed the race, 

And spurring see decrease the middle space. 

Palamon and Arcite. 

In the midst of Prince John’s cavalcade, he sud¬ 
denly stopt, and appealing to the Prior of Jorvaulx, 
declared the principal business of the day had been 
forgotten. 

“By my halidom,” said he, “we have neglected, 
Sir Prior, to name the fair Sovereign of Love and 
of Beauty, by whose white hand the palm is to be 
distributed. For my part, I am liberal in my ideas, 
and I care not if I give my vote for the black-eyed 
Rebecca.” 

“Holy Virgin,” answered the Prior, turning up 
his eyes in horror, “a Jewess!—We should deserve 
,to be stoned out of the lists; and I am not yet old 
enough to be a martyr. Besides, I swear by my 
patron saint, that she is far inferior to the lovely 
Saxon, Rowena.” 

“Saxon or Jew,” answered the Prince, “Saxon or 
Jew, dog or hog, what matters it! I say, name 
Rebecca, were it only to mortify the Saxon churls.” 

A murmur arose even among his own immediate 
attendants. 

“This passes a jest, my lord,” said De Bracy; 
“no knight here will lay lance in rest if such an 
insult is attempted.” 

“It is the mere wantonness of insult,” said one of 
the oldest and most important of Prince John’s fol- 


Ivan hoe 


107 


lowers, Waldemar Fitzurse, “and if your Grace at¬ 
tempt it, cannot but prove ruinous to your projects.” 

“1 entertained you, sir,” said John, reining up his 
palfrey haughtily, “for my follower, but not for my 
counselor.” 

“Those who follow your Grace in the paths which 
you tread,” said Waldemar, but speaking in a low 
voice, “acquire the right of counselors; for your in¬ 
terest and safety are not more deeply gaged than 
their own.” 

From the tone in which this was spoken, John saw 
the necessity of acquiescence. “I did but jest,” he 
said; “and you turn upon me like so many adders! 
Name whom you will, in the fiend's name, and please 
yourselves.” 

“Nay, nay,” said De Bracy, “let the fair sover¬ 
eign's throne remain unoccupied until the con¬ 
queror shall be named, and then let him choose the 
lady by whom it shall be filled. It will add another 
grace to his triumph, and teach fair ladies to prize 
the love of valiant knights, who can exalt them to 
such distinction.” 

“If Brian de Bois-Guilbert gain the prize,” said 
the Prior, “I will gage my rosary that I name the 
Sovereign of Love and Beauty.” 

“Bois-Guilbert,” answered De Bracy, “is a good 
lance; but there are others around these lists, Sir 
Prior, who will not fear to encounter him.” 

“Silence, sirs,” said Waldemar, “and let the Prince 
assume his seat. The knights and spectators are 
alike impatient, the time advances, and highly fit it 
is that the sports should commence.” 

Prince John, though not yet a monarch, had in 
Waldemar Fitzurse all the inconveniences of a favor¬ 
ite minister, who, in serving his sovereign, must al¬ 
ways do so in his own way. The Prince acquiesced, 
however, although his disposition was precisely of 



108 


IVANHOE 


that kind which is apt to be obstinate upon trifles 
and, assuming his throne, and being surrounded bj 
his followers, gave signal to the heralds to proclaiir 
the laws of the tournament, which were briefly at 
follows:, 

First, the five challengers were to undertake ali 
comers. 

Secondly, any knight proposing to combat, might 
if he pleased, select a special antagonist from among 
the challengers, by touching his shield. If he did scj 
with the reverse of his lance, the trial of skill was! 
made with what were called the arms of courtesy 
that is, with lances at whose extremity a piece oJ 
round flat board was fixed, so that no danger was en 
countered, save from the shock of the horses and 
riders. But if the shield was touched with the sharp 
end of the lance, the combat was understood to be al 
outmnce / that is, the knights were to fight with 
sharp weapons, as in actual battle. 

Thirdly, when the knights present had accom¬ 
plished their vow, by each of them breaking five 
lances, the Prince was to declare the victor in the 
first day’s tourney, who should receive as prize z 
war-horse of exquisite beauty and matchless; 
strength; and in addition to this reward of valor, it 
was now declared, he should have the peculiar hon¬ 
or of naming the Queen of Love and Beauty, bj 
whom the prize should be given on the ensuing day 

Fourthly, it was announced, that, on the second 
day, there should be a general tournament, in which 
all the knights present, who were desirous to win 
praise, might take part; and being divided into two 
bands, of equal numbers, might fight it out manfully, 
until the signal was given by Prince John to cease 
the combat. The elected Queen of Love and Beauty 


To the uttermost, to the death. 






IVANHOE 


109 


tvas then to crown the knight whom the Prince 
should adjudge to have borne himself best in this 
second day, with a coronet composed of thin gold 
plate, cut into the shape of a laurel crown. On this 
second day the knightly games ceased. But on that 
which was to follow, feats of archery, of bull-baiting, 
and other popular amusements, were to be prac¬ 
ticed for the more immediate amusement of the pop¬ 
ulace. In this manner did Prince John endeavor to 
lay the foundation of a popularity, which he was 
perpetually throwing down by some inconsiderate 
act of wanton aggression upon the feelings and 
prejudices of the people. 

The lists now presented a most splendid 'spectacle. 
The sloping galleries were crowded with all that was 
noble, great, wealthy, and beautiful, in the northern 
and midland parts of England; and the contrast of 
the various dresses of these dignified spectators 
rendered the view as gay as it was rich, while the 
interior and lower space, filled with the substantial 
burgesses and yeomen of merry England, formed, in 
their more plain attire, a dark fringe, or bordic, 
around this circle of brilliant embroidery, relieving, 
and, at the same time, setting off its splendor. 

The heralds finished their proclamation with their 
usual cry of ‘‘Largesse, largesse, gallant knights! 
and gold and silver pieces were showered on them 
from the gallery, it being a high point of chivalry 
to exhibit liberality towards those whom the age ac¬ 
counted at once the secretaries and the historians of 
honor. The bounty of the spectators was acknowl¬ 
edged by the customary shouts of “Love of Ladies 

_Death of Champions—Honor to the Generous— 

Glory to the Brave!” To which the more humble 
spectators added their acclamations, and a numerous 


Question: What were the rules of the tournament? 





110 


Ivan hoe 


I 


band of trumpeters the flourish of their martial in-1 
struments. When these sounds had ceased, the 
heralds withdrew from the lists in gay and glitter¬ 
ing procession, and none remained within them sj^ve 
the marshals of the field, who, armed cap-a-pie, sat 
on horseback, motionless as statues, at the opposite 
end of the lists. Meantime, the inclosed space at 
the northern extremity of the lists, large as it was, 
was now completely crowded with knights desirous 
to prove their skill against the challengers, and, 
when viewed from the galleries, presented the ap¬ 
pearance of a sea of waving plumage, intermixed 
with glistening helmets, and tall lances, to the ex¬ 
tremities of which were, in many cases, attached 
small pennons of about a span’s breadth, which, flut¬ 
tering in the air as the breeze caught them, joined 
with the restless motion of the feathers to add live¬ 
liness to the scene. 

At length the barriers were opened, and five 
knights, chosen by lot, advanced slowly into the 
area; a single champion riding in front, and the 
other four following in pairs. All were splendidly 
armed, and my Saxon authority (in the Wardour 
Manuscript) 1 records at great length their devices, 
their colors, and the embroidery of their horse trap¬ 
pings. It is unnecessary to be particular on these 
subjects. To borrow lines from a contemporary poet, 
who has written but too little— 

“The knights are dust, 2 
And their good swords are rust, 

Their souls are with the saints, we trust.” 

Their escutcheons have long moldered from the walls 

_ 

’The manuscript from which Scott pretended to get the 
details of his story. 

2 From a fragmentary poem by Coleridge. 





Ivan hoe 


111 


of their castles. Their castles themselves are but 
; green mounds and shattered ruins—the place that 
once knew them, knows them no more—nay, many a 
race since theirs has died out and been forgotten in 
; the very land which they occupied, with all the 
authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. 
What, then, would it avail the reader to know their 
names, or the evanescent symbols of their martial 
rank! 

Now, however, no whit anticipating the oblivion 
which awaited their names and feats, the champions 
advanced through the lists, restraining their fiery 
steeds and compelling them to move slowly, while, at 
the same time, they exhibited their paces, together 
with the grace and dexterity of the riders. As the 
procession entered the lists, the sound of a wild Bar¬ 
baric music was heard from behind the tents of the 
challengers where the performers were concealed. 
It was of Eastern origin, having been brought from 
the Holy Land; and the mixture of the cymbals and 
bells seemed to bid welcome at once, and defiance, to 
the knights as they advanced. With the eyes of an 
immense concourse of spectators fixed upon them, the 
five knights advanced up the platform upon which 
the tents of the challengers stood, and there separa¬ 
ting themselves, each touched slightly, and with the 
reverse of his lance, the shield of the antagonist to 
whom he wished to oppose himself. The lower order 
of spectators in general—nay, many of the higher 
class, and it is even said several of the ladies, were 
rather disappointed at the champions choosing the 
arms of courtesy. For the same sort of persons, who 
in the present day applaud most highly the deepest 
tragedies, were then interested in a tournament ex¬ 
actly in proportion to the danger incurred by the 
champions engaged. 

Having intimated their more specific purpose, the 



112 


Ivan hoe 


champions retreated to the extremity of the lists, 
where they remained drawn up in a line; while the 
challengers, sallying each from his pavilion, mounted 
their horses, and, headed by Brian de Bois-Guilbert. 
descended from the platform, and opposed them¬ 
selves individually to the knights who had touched 
their respective shields. 

At the flourish of clarions and trumpets, they 
started out against each other at full gallop; and 
such was the superior dexterity or good fortune of 
the challengers, that those opposed to Bois-Guilbert, 
Malvoisin, and Front-de-Boeuf, rolled on the ground, 
The antagonist of Grantmesnil, instead of bearing 
his lance-point fair against the crest or the shield of 
his enemy, swerved so much from the direct line as 
to break the weapon athwart the person of his op¬ 
ponent—a circumstance which was accounted more 
disgraceful than that of being actually unhorsed; be¬ 
cause the latter might happen from accident, where¬ 
as the former evinced awkwardness and want of 
management of the weapon and of the horse. The 
fifth knight alone maintained the honor of his party, 
and parted fairly with the Knight of St. John, both 
splintering their lances without advantage on either 
side. 

The shouts of the multitude, together with the 
acclamations of the heralds and the clangor of the 
trumpets, announced the triumph of the victors and 
the defeat of the vanquished. The former retreated 
to their pavilions, and the latter, gathering them¬ 
selves up as they could, withdrew from the lists in 
disgrace and dejection, to agree with their victors 
concerning the redemption of their arms and their 
horses, which, according to the laws of the tourna¬ 
ment, they had forfeited. The fifth of their number 
alone tarried in the lists long enough to be greeted 
by the applauses of the spectators, amongst whom he 


IVANHOE 


113 


retreated, to the aggravation, doubtless, of his com¬ 
panions’ mortification. 

A second and a third party of knights took the 
field; and although they had various success, yet, 
upon the whole, the advantage decidedly remained 
with the challengers, not one of whom lost his seat 
or swerved from his charge—misfortunes which be¬ 
fell one or two of their antagonists in each encoun¬ 
ter. The spirits, therefore, of those opposed to them 
seemed to be considerably damped by their continued 
success. Three knights only appeared on the fourth 
entry, who, avoiding the shields of Bois-Guilbert and 
Front-de-Bceuf, contented themselves with touching 
those of the three other knights, who had not alto¬ 
gether manifested the same strength and dexterity. 
This politic selection did not alter the fortune of the 
field, the challengers were still successful; one of 
their antagonists was overthrown, and both the oth¬ 
ers failed in the attaint / that is, striking the hel¬ 
met and shield of their antagonist firmly and strong¬ 
ly, with the lance held in a direct line, so that the 
weapon might break unless the champion was over¬ 
thrown. 

After this fourth encounter, there was a consider¬ 
able pause; nor did it appear that any one was very 
desirous of renewing the contest. The spectators 
murmured among themselves; for, among the chal¬ 
lengers, Malvoisin and Front-de-Boeuf were unpopu¬ 
lar from their characters, and the others, except 
Grantmesnil, were disliked as strangers and for¬ 
eigners. 

But none shared the general feeling of dissatisfac¬ 
tion so keenly as Cedric the Saxon, who saw, in each 
advantage gained by the Norman challengers, a re¬ 
peated triumph over the honor of England. His 

^‘This term of chivalry, transferred to the law, gives the 
phrase of being attainted of treason.” (Scott’s note). 





114 


IVANIIOE 


own education had taught him no skill in the games 
of chivalry, although, with the arms of his Saxon 
ancestors, he had manifested himself, on many oc¬ 
casions, a brave and determined soldier. He looked 
anxiously to Athelstane, who had learned the accom¬ 
plishments of the age, as if desiring that he should 
make some personal effort to recover the victory 
which was passing into the hands of the Templar and 
his associates. But, though both stout of heart and 
strong of person, Athelstane had a disposition too 
inert and unambitious to make the exertions which 
Cedric seemed to expect from him. 

“The day is against England, my lord,” said Cedric 
in a marked tone; “are you not tempted to take the 
lance?” 

“I shall tilt to-morrow,” answered Athelstane, “in 
the melee; it is not worth while for me to arm my¬ 
self to-day.” 

Two things displeased Cedric in this speech. It 
contained the Norman word melee (to express the 
general conflict), and it evinced some indifference to 
the honor of the country; but it was spoken by Athel¬ 
stane, whom he held in such profound respect that he 
would not trust himself to canvass his motives or 
his foibles. Moreover, he had no time to make 
any remark, for Wamba thrust in his word, observ¬ 
ing, “It was better, though scarce easier, to be 
the best man among a hundred, than the best man of 
two.” 

Athelstane took the observation as a serious com¬ 
pliment; but Cedric, who better understood the 
Jester’s meaning, darted at him a severe and men¬ 
acing look; and lucky it was for Wamba, perhaps, 
that the time and place prevented his receiving, not¬ 
withstanding his place and service, more sensible 
marks of his master’s resentment. 

The pause in the tournament was still uninter- 



IVANHOE 


115 


rupted, excepting by the voices of the heralds ex¬ 
claiming—“Love of ladies, splintering of lances! 
stand forth, gabant knights, fair eyes look upon your 
deeds!” 

The music also of the challengers breathed from 
time to time wild bursts expressive of triumph or 
(defiance, while the clowns grudged a holiday which 
seemed to pass away in inactivity; and old knights 
and nobles lamented in whispers the decay of martial 
spirit, spoke of the triumphs of their younger days, 
but agreed that the land did not now supply dames 
of such transcendent beauty as had animated the 
jousts of former times. Prince John began to talk 
to his attendants about making ready the banquet, 
and the necessity of adjudging the prize to Brian 
! do Bois-Gilbert, who had, with a single spear, over¬ 
thrown two knights, and foiled a third. 

At length, as the Saracenic music of the challen- 
gprr concluded one of those long and high flourishes 
with which they had broken the silence of the list's, it 
was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed 
a note of defiance from the northern extremity. All 
eyes were turned to see the new champion which 
these sounds announced, and no sooner were the bar¬ 
riers opened than he paced into the lists. As far as 
could be judged of a man sheathed in armor, the new 
adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle size, 
and seemed to be rather slender than strongly made. 
His suit of armour was formed of steel, richly inlaid 
with gold, and the device on his shield was a young 
! oak-tree pulled up by the roots, with the Spanish 
i word Desdichado , signifying Disinherited. He was 
mounted on a gallant black horse, and as he passed 
j through the lists he gracefully saluted the Prince 
| and the ladies by lowering his lance. The dexterity 
I with which he managed his steed, and something of 
youthful grace which he displayed in his manner, 




116 


IVANHOB 


won him the favor of the multitude, which some of 
the lower classes expressed by calling out, ‘Touch 
Ralph de Vipont’s shield—touch the Hospitaller’s 
shield; he has the least sure seat, he is your cheapest 
bargain.” 

The champion, moving onward amid these well- 
meant hints, ascended the platform by the sloping 
alley which led to it from the lists, and, to the aston¬ 
ishment of all present, riding straight up to the 
central pavilion, struck with the sharp end of his 
spear the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert until it 
rung again. All stood astonished at his presumption, 
but none more than the redoubted knight whom he 
had thus defied to mortal combat, and who, little 
expecting so rude a challenge, was standing careless¬ 
ly at the door of the pavilion. 

“Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the 
Templar, “and have you heard mass this morning, 
that you peril your life so frankly?” 

“I am fitter to meet death than thou art,” an¬ 
swered the Disinherited Knight; for by this name 
the stranger had recorded himself in the books of 
the tourney. 

“Then take your place in the lists,” said Bois- 
Guilbert, “and look your last upon the sun; for this 
night thou shalt sleep in paradise.” 

“Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disin¬ 
herited Knight, “and to requite it, I advise thee 
to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for by my 
honor you will need both.” 

Having expressed himself thus confidently, he 
reined his horse backward down the slope which he 
had ascended, and compelled him in the same man¬ 
ner to move backward through the lists, till he 
reached the northern extremity, where he remained 
station ary, in expectation of his antagonist. This 

Question : What vow is this challenge fulfilling? 






Ivan hoe 


117 


:eat of horsemanship again attracted the applause 
)f the multitude. 

j However incensed at his adversary for the pre¬ 
cautions which he recommended, Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert did not neglect his advice; for his honor 
was too nearly concerned, to permit his neglecting 
any means which might insure victory over his pre¬ 
sumptuous opponent. He changed his horse for a 
proved and fresh one of great strength and spirit. 
He chose a new and tough spear, lest the wood of the 
former might have been strained in the previous en¬ 
counters he had sustained. Lastly, he laid aside his 
shield, which had received some little damage, and 
received another from his squires. His first had only 
borne the general device of his rider, representing 
two knights riding upon one horse, an emblem ex¬ 
pressive of the original humility and poverty of the 
Templars, qualities which they had since exchanged 
for the arrogance and wealth that finally occasioned 
their suppression. Bois-Guilbert’s new shield bore 
a raven in full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and 
bearing the motto, Gave le Corbeau / 

When the two champions stood opposed to each 
other at the two extremities of the lists, the public 
expectation was strained to the highest pitch. Few 
augured the possibility that the encounter could ter¬ 
minate well for the Disinherited Knight, yet his 
courage and gallantry secured the general good 
.wishes of the spectators. 

The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than 
the champions vanished from their posts with the 
speed of lightning, and closed in the center of the 
lists with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances 
burst into shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed 
at the moment that both knights had fallen, for the 
shock had made each horse recoil backwards upon 


*Beware the Raven, 





118 


IVANHOE 


its haunches. The address of the riders recovered 
their steeds by use of the bridle and spur; and having 
glared on each other for an instant with eyes which 
seemed to flash fire through the bars of their visors, 
each made a demi-volte, and, retiring to the extrem¬ 
ity of the lists, received a fresh lance from the at¬ 
tendants. 

A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs 
and handkerchiefs, and general acclamations attested 
the interest taken by the spectators in this encoun¬ 
ter; the most equal, as well as the best performed, 
which had graced the day. But no sooner had the 
knights resumed their station, than the clamor of ap¬ 
plause was hushed into a silence, so deep, and so 
dead that it seemed the multitude were afraid even 
to breathe. 

A few minutes’ pause having been allowed, that 
the combatants and their horses might recover 
breath, Prince John with his truncheon signed to the 
trumpets to sound the onset. The champions a 
second time sprung from their stations, and closed 
in the center of the lists, with the same speed, the 
same dexterity, the same violence, but not the same 
equal fortune as before. 

In this second encounter, the Templar aimed at 
the center of his antagonist’s shield, and struck it so 
fair and forcibly that his spear went to shivers, and 
the Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle. On the 
other hand, that champion had, in the beginning of 
his career, directed the point of his lance towards 
Bois-Guilbert’s shield, but, changing his aim almost 
in the moment of encounter, he addressed it to the 
helmet, a mark more difficult to hit, but which, if 
attained, rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair 
and true he hit the Norman on the visor, where his 
lance’s point kept hold of the bars. Yet even at this 
disadvantage, the Templar sustained his high repu- 


IVANHOE 119 

Station; and had not the girths of his saddle burst, 
he might not have been unhorsed. As it chanced, 
‘however, saddle, horse, and man rolled on the ground 
under a cloud of dust. 

To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen 
steed, was to the Templar scarce the work of a mo¬ 
ment; and, stung with madness, both at his dis¬ 
grace and at the acclamations with which it was 
| hailed by the spectators, he drew his sword and 
waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Dis¬ 
inherited Knight sprung from his steed, and also 
unsheathed his sword. The marshals of the field, 

! however, spurred their horses between them, and re¬ 
minded them that the laws of the tournament did 
not on the present occasion, permit this species of 
encounter. 

“We shall meet again, I trust,” said the Templar, 
casting a resentful glance at his antagonist; “and 
where there are none to separate us.” 

“If we do not,” said the Disinherited Knight, 
“the fault shall not be mine. On foot or horseback, 
with spear, with ax, or with sword, I am alike ready 
to encounter thee.” 

More and angrier words would have been ex¬ 
changed, but the marshals, crossing their lances be- 
I twixt them, compelled them to separate. The Disin¬ 
herited Knight returned to his first station, and Bois- 
Guilbert to his tent, where he remained for the rest 
of the day in an agony of despair. 

Without alighting from his horse, the conqueror 
called for a bowl of wine, and opening the beaver 
i or lower part of his helmet, announced that he 
quaffed it “To all true English hearts, and to the 
confusion of foreign tyrants.” He then commanded 
his trumpet to sound a defiance to the challengers, 
and desired a herald to announce to them that he 
should make no election, but was willing to en- 




120 


Ivan hoe 


counter them in the order in which they pleased to 
advance against him. 

The gigantic Front-de-Boeuf , 1 armed in sable armor, 
was the first who took the field. He bore on 
a white shield a black bull’s head, half defaced by 
the numerous encounters which he had undergone, 
and bearing the arrogant motto, Cave Adsum . 2 Over 
this champion the Disinherited Knight obtained 
a slight but decisive advantage. Both knights broke 
their lances fairly, but Front-de-Bceuf, who lost a 
stirrup in the encounter, was adjudged to have the 
disadvantage. 

In the stranger’s third encounter, with Sir Philip 
Mialvoisin, he was equally successful, striking that 
baron so forcibly on the casque that the laces of the 
helmet broke, and Malvoisin, only saved from falling 
by being unhelmeted/was declared vanquished like 
his companions. 

In his fourth combat, with De Grantmesnil, the 
Disinherited Knight showed as much courtesy as 
he had hitherto evinced courage and dexterity. 
De Grantmesnil’s horse, which was young and vio¬ 
lent, reared and plunged in the course of the career 
so as to disturb the rider’s aim, and the stranger, 
declining to take the advantage which this accident 
afforded him, raised his lance and passing his an¬ 
tagonist without touching him, wheeled his horse 
and rode back again to his own end of the lists, offer¬ 
ing his antagonist, by a herald, the chance of a sec¬ 
ond encounter. This De Grantmesnil declined ^vow¬ 
ing himself vanquished as much by the courtesy as 
by the address of his opponent. 

Ralph de Vipont summed up the list of the stran¬ 
ger’s triumphs, being hurled to the ground with such 


'Head of the bull (literally). 
'Beware! I aiu present. 




IVANHOE 


121 


force that the blood gushed from his nose and mouth, 
and he was borne senseless from the lists. 

The acclamations of thousands applauded the 
unanimous award of the Prince and marshals, an¬ 
nouncing that day’s honors to the Disinherited 
Knight. 



CHAPTER IX 


-In the midst was seen 

A lady of a more majestic mien, 

By stature and by beauty mark’d their sovereign Queen. 

* * * 

And as in beauty she surpass’d the choir, 

So nobler than the rest was her attire; 

A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow, 

Plain without pomp, and rich without a show; 

A branch of Agnus Castus in her hand, 

She bore aloft her symbol of command. 

The Flower and the Leaf. 

William de Wyvil and Stephen de Martival, the 
marshals of the field, were the first to offer their con¬ 
gratulations to the victor, praying him, at the same 
time, to suffer his helmet to be unlaced, or, at least, 
that he would raise his visor ere they conducted him 
to receive the prize of the day’s tourney from the 
hands of Prince John. The Disinherited Knight, 
with all knightly courtesy, declined their request, 
alleging that he could not at this time suffer his face 
to be seen, for reasons which he had assigned to the 
heralds when he entered the lists. The marshals 
were perfectly satisfied by this reply; for amidst 
the frequent and capricious vows by which knights 
were accustomed to bind themselves in the days of 
chivalry, there were none more common than those 
by which they engaged to remain incognito for a cer¬ 
tain space, or until some particular adventure was 
achieved. The marshals, therefore, pressed no far¬ 
ther into the mystery of the Disinherited Knight, but, 
announcing to Prince John the conqueror’s desire to 
remain unknown, they requested permission to bring 
him before his Grace, in order that he might receive 
the reward of his valor. 

John’s curiosity was excited by the mystery ob- 






IVANHOE 


123 


served by the stranger; and, being already displeased 
with the issue of the tournament, in which the chal¬ 
lengers whom he favored had been successively de¬ 
feated by one knight, he answered haughtily to the 
marshals: 

“By the light of Our Lady’s brow , 1 this same 
knight hath been disinherited as well of his courtesy 
as of his lands, since he desires to appear before us 
without uncovering his face.—Wot ye , 2 my lords,” he 
said, turning round to his train, “who this gallant 
can be, that bears himself thus proudly?” 

“I cannot guess/’ answered De Bracy, “nor did 
I think there had been within the four seas that 
girth Britain a champion that could bear down these 
five knights in one day’s jousting. By my faith, I 
shall never forget the force with which he shocked 
De Vipont. The poor Hospitaller was hurled from 
his saddle like a stone from a sling.” 

“Boast not of that,” said a Knight of St. John, 
who was present; “your Temple champion had no 
better luck. I saw your brave lance, Bois-Guilbert, 
roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at 
every turn.” 

De Bracy being attached to the Templars, would 
have replied, but was prevented by Prince John. 

“Silence, sirs!” he said; “what unprofitable de¬ 
bate have we here?” 

“The victor,” said De Wyvil, “still waits the pleas¬ 
ure of your Highness.” 

“It is our pleasure,” answered John, “that he do 
so wait until we learn whether there is not some one 
who can at least guess at his name and quality. 
Should he remain there till nightfall, he has had 
enough work to keep him warm.” 


Virgin Mary. 

2 Know ye. 






124 


Ivan hoe 


“Your Grace,” said Waldemar Fitzurse, “will do 
less than due honor to the victor, if you compel him 
to wait till we tell your Highness that which we 
cannot know; at least I can form no guess—unless he 
be one of the good lances who accompanied King 
Richard of Palestine, and who are now straggling 
homeward from the Holy Land.” 

“It may be the Earl of Salisbury,” said De Bracy; 
“he is about the same pitch.” 

“Sir Thomas de Multon, the Knight of Gilsland, 
rather,” said Fitzurse; “Salisbury is bigger in the 
bones.” A whisper arose among the train, but by 
whom first suggested could not be ascertained. “It 
might be the King—it might be Richard Cceur-de- 
Lion himself!” 

“Over God’s forbode!” said Prince John, involun¬ 
tarily turning at the same time as pale as death, 
and shrinking as if blighted by a flash of lightning; 
“Waldemar!—De Bracy! brave knights and gentle¬ 
men, remember your promises, and stand truly by 
me!” 

“Here is no danger impending,” said Waldemar 
Fitzurse; “are you so little acquainted with the 
gigantic limbs of your father’s son as to think they 
can be held within the circumference of yonder suit 
of armor?—De Wyvil and Martival, you will best 
serve the Prince by bringing forward the victor to 
the throne, and ending an error that has conjured 
all the blood from his cheeks.—Look at him more 
closely,” he continued; “your Highness will see that 
he wants three inches of King Richard’s height and 
twice as much of his shoulder-breadth. The very 
horse he backs could not have carried the ponderous 
weight of King Richard through a single course.” 

While he was yet speaking, the marshals brought 
forward the Disinherited Knight to the foot of a 
wooden flight of steps, which formed the ascent 


IVANHOE 


125 


from the lists to Prince John’s throne. Still dis¬ 
composed with the idea that his brother, so much 
injured, and to whom he was so much indebted, 
had suddenly arrived in his native kingdom, even 
the distinctions pointed out by Fitzurse did not 
altogether remove the Prince’s apprehensions; and 
while, with a short and embarrassed eulogy upon 
his valor, he caused to be delivered to him the war- 
horse assigned as the prize, he trembled lest from the 
barred visor of the mailed form before him an an¬ 
swer might be returned, in the deep and awful ac¬ 
cents of Richard the Lion-hearted. 

But the Disinherited Knight spoke not a word in 
reply to the compliment of the Prince, which he 
only acknowledged with a profound obeisance. 

The horse was led into the lists by two grooms 
richly dressed, the animal itself being fully accou¬ 
tered with the richest war-furniture; which, how¬ 
ever, scarcely added to the value of the noble crea¬ 
ture in the eyes of those who were judges. Laying 
one hand upon the pommel of the saddle, the Disin¬ 
herited Knight vaulted at once upon the back of the 
steed without making use of the stirrup, and brand¬ 
ishing aloft his lance, rode twice around the lists, ex¬ 
hibiting the points and paces of the horse with the 
skill of a perfect horseman. 

The appearance of vanity, which might otherwise 
have been attributed to this display, was removed by 
the propriety shown in exhibiting to the best advan¬ 
tage the princely reward with which he had been just 
honored, and the Knight was again greeted by the 
acclamations of all present. 

In the meanwhile, the bustling Prior of Jorvaulx 
had reminded Prince John, in a whisper, that the 
victor must now display his good judgment, instead 
of his valor, by selecting from among the beauties 
who graced the galleries a lady, who should fill the 


126 


Ivan hoe 


throne of the Queen of Beauty and of Love, and de¬ 
liver the prize of the tourney upon the ensuing day. 
The Prince accordingly made a sign with his trunch¬ 
eon, as the Knight passed him in his second career 
round the lists. The Knight turned towards the 
throne, and, sinking his lance, until the point was 
within a foot of the ground, remained motionless, as 
if expecting John’s command: while all admired the 
sudden dexterity with which he instantly reduced his 
fiery steed from a state of violent emotion and high 
excitation to the stillness of an equestrian statue. 

“Sir Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, 
“since that is the only title by which we can address 
you, it is now your duty, as well as privilege, to name 
the fair lady, who, as Queen of Honor and of Love, 
is to preside over next day’s festival. If, as a 
stranger in our land, you should require the aid of 
other judgment to guide your own, we can only say 
that Alicia, the daughter of our gallant knight Wal- 
demar Fitzurse, has at our court been long held the 
first in beauty as in place. Nevertheless, it is your 
undoubted prerogative to confer on whom you please 
this crown, by the delivery of which to the lady of 
your choice, the election of to-morrow’s Queen will 
be formal and complete.—Raise your lance.” 

The Knight obeyed; and Prince John placed upon 
its point a coronet of green satin, having around its 
edge a circle of gold, the upper edge of which was 
relieved by arrow-points and hearts placed inter¬ 
changeably, like the strawberry leaves and balls upon 
a ducal crown. 

In the broad hint which he dropped respecting the 
daughter of Waldemar Fitzurse, John had more than 
one motive, each the offspring of a mind which was a 
strange mixture of carelessness and presumption 
with low artifice and cunning. He wished to banish 
from the minds of the chivalry around him his own 


IVANHOE 


127 


■ # 

^indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess 
Rebecca; he was desirous of conciliating Alicia’s 
father Waldemar, of whom he stood in awe, and who 
had more than once shown himself dissatisfied dur¬ 
ing the course of the day’s proceedings. He had also 
a wish to establish himself in the good graces of the 
lady; for John was at least as licentious in his 
! pleasures as profligate in his ambition. But besides 
j all these reasons he was desirous to raise up against 
the Disinherited Knight (towards whom he already 
entertained a strong dislike) a powerful enemy in 
the person of Waldemar Fitzurse, who was likely, 
he thought, highly to resent the injury done to his 
daughter, in case, as was not unlikely, the victor 
should make another choice. 

And so indeed it proved. For the Disinherited 
Knight passed the gallery close to that of the Prince, 
in which the Lady Alicia was seated in the full pride 
of triumphant beauty, and, pacing forwards as slow¬ 
ly as he had hitherto rode swiftly around the lists, 

! he seemed to exercise his right of examining the 
| numerous fair faces which adorned that splendid 
circle. 

It was worth while to see the different conduct of 
| the beauties who underwent tjlis examination., during 
I the time it was proceeding. Some blushed, some 
assumed an air of pride and dignity, some looked 
straight forward, and essayed to seem utterly uncon¬ 
scious of what was going on, some drew back in 
alarm, which was perhaps affected, some endeavored 
to forbear smiling, and there were two or three who 
laughed outright. There were also some who 
dropped their veils over their charms, but as the 
Wardour Manuscript says these fair ones of ten 
years’ standing, it may be supposed that, having had 
their full share of such vanities, they were willing 




128 


Ivan hoe 


to withdraw their claim, in order to give a fair 
chance to the rising beauties of the age. 

At length the champion paused beneath the bal¬ 
cony in which the Lady Rowena was placed, and 
the expectation of the spectators was excited to the 
utmost. 

It must be owned, that if an interest displayed in 
his success could have bribed the Disinherited 
Knight, the part of the list before which he paused 
had merited his predilection. Cedric the Saxon, over¬ 
joyed at the discomfiture of the Templar, and still 
more so at the miscarriage of his two malevolent 
neighbors, Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, had, with 
his body half stretched over the balcony, accompa¬ 
nied the victor in each course, not with his eyes only, 
but with his whole heart and soul. The Lady Rowena 
had watched the progress of the day with equal at¬ 
tention, though without openly betraying the same 
intense interest. Even the unmoved Athelstane had 
shown symptoms of shaking off his apathy, when, 
calling for a huge goblet of Muscadine, he quaffed it 
to the health of the Disinherited Knight. 

Another group, stationed under the gallery oc¬ 
cupied by the Saxons, had shown no less interest in 
the fate of the day. « 

“Father Abraham!” said Isaac of York, when the 
first course was run betwixt the Templar and the 
Disinherited Knight. “How fiercely that Gentile 
rides! Ah, the good horse that was brought all the 
long way from Barbary, he takes no more care of him 
than if he were a wild ass’s colt—and the noble 
armor, that was worth so many zecchins to Joseph 
Pareira, the armorer of Milan, besides seventy in the 
hundred of profits, he cares for it as little as if he 
had found it in the highways!” 

“If he risks his own person and limbs, father,” 



IVANHOE 


129 


said Rebecca, “in doing such a dreadful battle, he 
can scarce be expected to spare his horse and armor ” 

“Child!” replied Isaac, somewhat heated, “thou 
knowest not what thou speakest.—His neck and limbs 
are his own, but his horse and armour belong to—- 
Holy Jacob! what was I about to say!—Nevertheless, 
it is a good youth.—See, Rebecca! see, he is again 
! about to go up to battle against the Philistine . 1 Pray, 
child—pray for the safety of the good youth,— and 
of the speedy horse, and the rich armor.—God of 
my fathers!” he again exclaimed, “he hath con¬ 
quered, and the uncircumcised Philistine hath fallen 
before his lance,—even as Og , 2 the King of Bashan, 
and Sihon, King of the Amorites, fell before the 
sword of our fathers!—Surely he shall take their 
gold and their silver, and their war-horses, and 
their armor of brass and of steel, for a prey and 
for a spoil.” 

The same anxiety did the worthv Jew display dur¬ 
ing every course that was run, seldom failing to haz¬ 
ard a hasty calculation concerning the value of the 
horse and armor which were forfeited to the cham¬ 
pion upon each new success. There had been there¬ 
fore no small interest taken in the success of the 
Disinherited Knight, by those who occupied the part 
of the lists before which he now paused. 

Whether from indecision or some other motive 
of hesitation, the champion of the day remained sta- 
tionarv for more than a minute, while the eyes of 
the silent audience was riveted upon his motions; 
and then, gradually and gracefully sinking the point 
of his lance, he deposited the coronet which it sup- 


1 Always an enemy of the Jew in Palestine in Bible times. 

2 King of Bashan. Numbers XXI. 21-35 ; Dent. Ill, 1-13. 
Question : Why was Isaac especially interested in the 
conduct of the Disinherited Knight? 






130 


IVANHOE 


ported at the feet of the fair Rowena. The trumpets 
instantly sounded, while the heralds proclaimed the 
Lady Rowena the Queen of Beauty and of Love for 
the ensuing day, menacing with suitable penalties 
those who should be disobedient to her authority. 
They then repeated the cry of Largesse, to which 
Cedric, in the height of his joy, replied by an am¬ 
ple donative, and to which Athelstane, though less 
promptly, added one equally large. 

There was some murmuring among the damsels of 
Norman descent, who were as much unused to see 
the preference given to a Saxon beauty as the Nor¬ 
man nobles were to sustain defeat in the games of 
chivalry which they themselves had introduced. But 
these sounds of disaffection were drowned by the 
popular shout of “Long live the Lady Rowena, the 
chosen and lawful Queen of Love and of Beauty !’ 5 
To which many in the lower area added, “Long live 
the Saxon Princess! long live the race of the im¬ 
mortal Alfred!” 

However unacceptable these sounds might be to 
Prince John, and to those around him, he saw him¬ 
self nevertheless obliged to confirm the nomination 
of the victor, and accordingly calling to horse, he 
left his throne; and mounting his jennet, accompa¬ 
nied by his train, he again entered the lists. The 
Prince paused a moment beneath the gallery of Lady 
Alicia, to whom he paid his compliments observing 
at the same time, to those around him—“By my hali 
dom, sirs! if the Knight’s feats in arms have showr 
that he hath limbs and sinews, his choice hath nc 
less proved that his eyes are none of the clearest!” 

It was on this occasion, as during his whole life 
John’s misfortune, not perfectly to understand the 
characters of those whom he wished to conciliate 
Waldemar Fitzurse was rather offended than pleasec 


IVANHOE 


131 


at the Prince stating thus broadly an opinion that 
his daughter had been slighted. 

“I know no right of chivalry,” he said, “more 
precious or inalienable than that of each free knight 
jto choose his ladylove by his own judgment. My 
daughter courts distinction from no one; and in her 
own character, and in her own sphere, will never fail 
to receive the full proportion of that which is her 
due.” 

Prince John replied not; but, spurring his horse, 
as if to give vent to his vexation, he made the animal 
bound forward to the gallery where Rowena was 
seated, with the crown still at her feet. 

“Assume,” he said, “fair lady, the mark of your 
Sovereignty, to which none vows homage more sin¬ 
cerely than ourself, John of Anjou; and if it please 
>mu to-day, with your noble sire and friends, to grace 
our banquet in the Castle of Ashby, we shall learn to 
know the empress to whose service we devote to¬ 
morrow.” 

Rowena remained silent, and Cedric answered for 
her in his native Saxon. 

“The Lady Rowena,” he said, “possesses not the 
language in which to reply to your courtesy, or to 
sustain her part in your festival. I also, and the 
noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh, speak only the 
language, and practice only the manners, of our 
fathers. We therefore decline with thanks your 
Highness’s courteous invitation to the banquet. To¬ 
morrow, the Lady Rowena will take upon her the 
state to which she has been called by the free elec¬ 
tion of the victor Knight confirmed by the acclama¬ 
tions of the people.” 

So saying, he lifted the coronet, and placed it upon 
Rowena’s head, in token of her acceptance of the 
temporary authority assigned to her. 

“What says he?” said Prince John, affecting not 



132 


Ivan hoe 


to understand the Saxon language, in which, howev 
er, he was well skilled. The purport of Cedric’ 
speech was repeated to him in French. “It is well, 
he said; “to-morrow we will ourself conduct thi 
mute sovereign to her seat of dignity.—You, at leasl 
Sir Knight,” he added, turning to the victor, who hai 
remained near the gallery, “will this day share ou 
banquet?” 

The Knight, speaking for the first time, in a lo^ 
and hurried voice, excused himself by pleading fa 
tigue, and the necessity of preparing for to-moi 
row’s encounter. 

“It is well,” said Prince John, haughtily; “althoug 
unused to such refusals, we will endeavor to diges 
our banquet as we may, though ungraced by the mos 
successful in arms, and his elected Queen of Beauty. 

So saying, he prepared to leave the lists with hi 
glittering train, and his, turning his steed for tha 
purpose, was the signal for the breaking up an 
dispersion of the spectators. 

Yet, with the vindictive memory proper to o: 
fended pride, especially when combined with consc 
ous want of desert, John had hardly proceeded thre 
paces, ere again, turning around, he fixed an eye c 
stern resentment upon the yeoman who had di: 
pleased him in the early part of the day, and issue 
his commands to the men-at-arms who stood near.- 
“On your life, suffer not that fellow to escape.” 

The yeoman stood the angry glance of the Princ 
with the same unvaried steadiness which had marke 
his former deportment saying, with a smile, “I ha^ 
no intention to leave Ashby until the day after t 
morrow.—I must see how Staffordshire and Leice 
tershire can draw their bows—the forests of Nee 
wood and Charnwood must rear good archers.” 

“I,” said Prince John to his attendants, but n 
in direct reply, “I will see how he can draw h 


I 


IVANHOE 


IBS 


wn; and woe betide him unless his skill should 
^rove some apology for his insolence V* 

| “It is full time/’ said De Bracy, “that the out - 
\ecuidance 1 of these peasants should be restrained 
>y some striking example.” 

Waldemar Fitzurse, who probably thought his pa- 
ron was not taking the readiest road to popularity, 
hrugged up his shoulders and was silent. Prince 
ohn resumed his retreat from the lists, and the 
lispersion of the multitude became general. 

In various routes, according to the different quar- 
ers from which they came, and in groups of vari¬ 
ous numbers, the spectators were seen retiring over 
he plain. By far the most numerous part streamed 
owards the town of Ashby, where many of the dis- 
inguished persons were lodged in the castle, and 
vhere others found accommodation in the town it¬ 
self. Among these were most of the knights who 
lad already appeared in the tournament, or who 
moposed to fight there the ensuing day, and who, 
is they rode slowly along, talking over the events 
)f the day, were greeted with loud shouts by the 
mpulace. The same acclamations were bestowed up- 
>n Prince John, although he was indebted for them 
•ather to the splendor of his appearance and train 
,han to the popularity of his character. 

A more sincere and more general as well as a 
3etter-merited acclamation, attended the victor of 
the day, until, anxious to withdraw himself from 
popular notice, he accepted the accommodation of 
Dne of those pavilions pitched at the extremities of 
the lists, the use of which was courteously tendered 
him by the marshals of the field. On his. retiring to 
his tent, many who had lingered in the lists, to look 


“Presumption ; Insolence”—Scott. 





134 


Ivan hoe 


upon and form conjectures concerning him, also dis¬ 
persed. 

The signs and sounds of a tumultuous concourse 
of men lately crowded together in one place, and 
agitated by the same passing events, were now ex¬ 
changed for the distant hum of voices of different 
groups retreating in all directions, and these speed¬ 
ily died away in silence. No other sounds were heard 
save the voices of the menials who stripped the gal¬ 
leries of their cushions and tapestry, in order to put 
them in safety for the night, and wrangled among 
themselves for the half-used bottles of wine and 
relics of the refreshment which had been served 
round to the spectators. 

Beyond the precincts of the lists more .than one, 
forge was erected; and these now began to glimmer 
through the twilight, announcing the toil of the ar¬ 
morers, which was to continue through the whole 
night in order to repair or alter the suits of armor to 
be used again on the morrow. 

A strong guard of men-at-arms, renewed at in¬ 
tervals, from two hours to two hours, surrounded 
the lists, and kept watch during the night. 




CHAPTER X 


Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls 
The sick man’s passport in her hollow beak, 

And in the shadow of the silent night 
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings; 

Vex’d and tormented, runs poor Barabbas, 

! With fatal curses towards these Christians, 

Jew of Malta. 

The Disinherited Knight had no sooner reached 
iis pavilion than squires and pages in abundance 
eridered their services to disarm him, to bring fresh 
ittire, and to offer him the refreshment of the bath. 
Their zeal, on this occasion, was perhaps sharpened 
>y curiosity, since every one desired to know who the 
[night was that had gained so many laurels, yet had 
*efused, even at the command of Prince John, to 
ift his visor or to name his name. But their officious 
nquisitiveness was not gratified. The Disinherited 
Cnight refused all other assistance save that of his 
»wn squire, or rather yeoman—a clownish-looking 
nan, who, wrapt in a cloak of dark-colored felt, and 
laving his head and face half-buried in a Norman 
jonnet made of black fur, seemed to affect the incog- 
lito as much as his master. All others being ex¬ 
cluded from the tent, this attendant relieved his 
naster from the more burdensome parts of his ar- 
nor, and placed food and wine before him, which the 
exertions of the day rendered very acceptable. 

The Knight had scarcely finished a hasty meal, ere 
iis menial announced to him that five men. each lead¬ 
ing a barbed steed, desired to speak with him. The 
Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armor for 
:he long robe usually worn by those of his condition, 
which, being furnished with a hood, concealed the 
features, when such was the pleasure of the wearer, 
ilmost as completely as the visor of the helmet itself; 




136 


I VAN HOE 


but the twilight, which was now fast darkening, 
would of itself have rendered a disguise unneces¬ 
sary, unless to persons to whom the face of an indi¬ 
vidual chanced to be particularly well known. 

The Disinherited Knight, therefore, stept boldly 
forth to the front of his tent, and found in attend¬ 
ance the squires of the challengers, whom he easily 
knew by their russet and black dresses, each of 
whom led his master’s charger, loaded with the ar¬ 
mor in which he had that day fought. 

‘‘According to the laws of chivalry,” said the fore¬ 
most of these men, “I, Baldwin de Oyley, squire to 
the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, make 
offer to you, styling yourself, for the present, the 
Disinherited Knight, of the horse and armor used 
by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert in this day’s Pas¬ 
sage of Arms, leaving it with your nobleness to 
obtain or to ransom the same, according to your 
pleasure; for such is the law of arms.” 

The other squires repeated nearly the same for¬ 
mula, and then stood to await the decision of the 
Disinherited Knight. 

“To you four, sirs,” replied the Knight, addressing 
those who had last spoken, “and to your honorable 
and valiant masters, I have one common reply. Com¬ 
mend me to the noble knights, your masters; and 
say I should do ill to deprive them of steeds and arms 
which can never be used by braver cavaliers.—I 
would I could here end my message to these gallant 
knights; but being, as I term myself, in truth and 
earnest, the Disinherited, I must be thus far bound 
to your masters, that they will, of their courtesy, be 
pleased to ransom their steeds and armor, since that 
which I wear I can hardly term mine own.” 

“We stand commissioned, each of us,” answered 
the squire of Reginald Front-de-Bceuf, “to offer a 


IVANHOE 


187 


hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses and suits 
of armor.” 

“It is sufficient,” said the Disinherited Knight, 
“Half the sum my present necessities compel me to 
accept; of the remaining half, distribute one moiety 
among yourselves, sir squires, and divide the other 
half betwixt the heralds and the pursuivants, and 
minstrels, and attendants.” 

The squires, with cap in hand, and low reverences, 
expressed their deep sense of a courtesy and gen¬ 
erosity not often practiced, at least upon a scale so 
extensive. The Disinherited Knight then addressed 
his discourse to Baldwin, the squire of Brian de 
Bois-Guilbert. “From your master,” said he, “I will 
accept neither arms nor ransom. Say to him in my 
name, that our strife is not ended—no, not till we 
have fought as well with swords as with lances— 
as well on foot as on horseback. To this mortal 
quarrel he has himself defied me, and I shall not 
forget the challenge.—Meantime, let him be assured 
that I hold him not as one of his companions, with 
whom I can with pleasure exchange courtesies; but 
rather as one with whom I stand upon terms of mor¬ 
tal defiance.” 

“My master,” answered Baldwin, “knows how to 
requite scorn with scorn, and blows with blows, as 
well as courtesy with courtesy. Since you disdain to 
accept from him any share of the ransom at which 
you have rated the arms of the other knights, I must 
leave his armor and his horSe here, being well as¬ 
sured that he will never deign to mount the one or 
wear the other.” 

“You have spoken well, good Squire, said the 
Disinherited Knight, “well and boldly, as it be- 
seemeth him to speak who answers for an absent 
master. Leave not, however, the horse and armor 
here. Restore them to thy master, or, if he scorns 




138 


Ivan hoe 


to accept them, retain them, good friend, for thine 
own use. So far as they are mine, I bestow them 
upon you freely.” 

Baldwin made a deep obeisance, and retired with 
his companions; and the Disinherited Knight en¬ 
tered the pavilion. 

“Thus far, Gurth,” said he addressing his at¬ 
tendant, “the reputation of English chivalry hath 
not suffered in my hands.” 

“And I,” said Gurth, “for a Saxon swineherd, have 
not ill played the personage of a Norman squire-at- 
arms.” 

“Yea, but,” answered the Disinherited Knight, 
“thou hast ever kept me in anxiety lest thy clownish 
bearing should discover thee.” 

“Tush!” said Gurth, “I fear discovery from none, 
saving my playfellow, Wamba the Jester, of whom 
I could never discover whether he were most knave 
or fool. Yet I could scarce choose but to laugh, when 
my old master passed so near to me, dreaming all the 
while that Gurth was keeping his porkers many a 
mile off, in the thickets and swamps of Rotherwood. 
If I am discovered-” 

“Enough,” said the Disinherited Knight, “thou 
knowest my promise.” 

“Nay, for that matter,” said Gurth. “I will never 
fail my friend for fear of my skin-cutting. I have 
a tough hide, that will bear knife or scourge as well 
as any boar's hide in my herd.” 

“Trust me, I will requite the risk you run for my 
love, Gurth,” said the Knight. “Meanwhile, I pray 
you to accept these ten pieces of gold.” 

“I am richer,” said Gurth, putting them into his 
pouch, “than ever was swineherd or bondsman.” 

“Take this bag of gold to Ashby,” continued his 
master, “and find out Isaac the Jew of York, and let 
him pay himself for the horse and arms with which 




IVANHOE 


139 


his credit supplied me.” 

“Nay, by St. Dunstan,” replied Gurth, “that I will 
not do.” 

“How, knave,” replied his master, “wilt thou not 
obey my commands?” 

“So they be honest, reasonable, and Christian com¬ 
mands,” replied Gurth; “but this is none of these. 

| To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be dishonest, 

! for it would be cheating my master; and unreason¬ 
able, for it were the part of a fool; and unchristian, 
since it would be plundering a believer to enrich an 
infidel.” 

! “See him contented, however, thou stubborn var- 
II let.” said the Disinherited Knight. 

“I will do sc,” said Gurth, taking the bag under 
his cloak and leaving the apartment; “and it will 
go hard,” he muttered, “but I content him with one- 
half of his own asking.” So saying, he departed, and 
left the Disinherited Knight to his own perplexed 
ruminations; which, upon more accounts than it is 
now possible to communicate to the reader, were of a 
nature peculiarly agitating and painful. 

We must now change the scene to the village of 
Ashby, or rather to a country house in its vicinity 
belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with whom Isaac, 
his daughter, and retinue had taken up their quar¬ 
ters; the Jews, it is well known, being as liberal in 
exercising the duties of hospitality and charity 
among their own people, as they were alleged to be 
reluctant and churlish in extending them to those 
whom they termed Gentiles, and whose treatment of 
them certainly merited little hospitality at their 
hand. 

In an apartment, small indeed, but richly fur¬ 
nished with decorations of an Oriental taste, Re¬ 
becca was seated on a heap of embroidered cuSh- 




140 


IVANHOE 


ions, which, piled along a low platform that sur¬ 
rounded the chamber, served, like the estrada of 
the Spaniards, instead of chairs and stools. She 
was watching the motions of her father with a look 
of anxious and filial affection, while he paced the 
apartment with a dejected mien and disordered 
step; sometimes clasping his hands together—some¬ 
times casting his eyes to the roof of the apart¬ 
ment, as one who labored under great mental 
tribulation. “0 Jacob!” he exclaimed—“0 all ye 
twelve Holy Fathers of our tribe! what a losing 
venture is this for one who hath duly kept every 
jot and tittle of the law of Moses.—Fifty zecchins 
wrenched from me at one clutch, and by the talons 
of a tyrant!” 

“But, father,” said Rebecca, “you seemed to give 
the gold to Prince John willingly.” 

“Willingly? The blotch of Egypt upon him!-- 
Willingly, saidst thou?—Ay, as willingly as when, 
in the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise 
to lighten the ship, while she labored in the temp¬ 
est—robed the seething billows in my choice silks— 
perfumed their briny foam with myrrh and aloes— 
enriched their caverns with gold and silver work! 
And was not that an hour of unutterable misery, 
though my own hand made the sacrifice?” 

“But it was a sacrifice which Heaven exacted to 
save our lives,” answered Rebecca, “and the God 
of our fathers has since blessed your store and 
your gettings.” 

“Ay,” answered Isaac, “but if the tyrant lays 
hold on them as he did to-day, and compels me to 
smile while he is robbing me?—0 daughter, disin¬ 
herited and wandering as we are, the worst evil 
which befalls our race is, that when we are wronged 
and plundered, all the world laughs around, and 


Ivan hoe 


141 


we are compelled to suppress our sense of injury, 
and to smile tamely, when we would revenge brave¬ 
ly” 

“Think not thus of it, my father,” said Rebecca; 
“we also have advantages. These Gentiles, cruel 
and oppressive as they are, are in some sort de¬ 
pendent on the dispersed children of Zion, whom 
they despise and persecute. Without the aid of our 
wealth, they could neither furnish forth their hosts 
in war, nor their triumphs in peace; and the gold 
which we lend them returns with increase to our 
coffers. We are like the herb which flourished 
most when it is most trampled on. Even this day’s 
pageant had not proceeded without the consent of 
the despised Jew, who furnished the means.” 

“Daughter,” said Isaac, “thou hast harped upon 
another string of sorrow. The goodly steed and the 
rich armor equal to the full profit of my adventure 
with our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester—there is a 
dead loss too—ay, a loss which swallows up the 
gains of a week; ay, of the space between two Sab¬ 
baths—and yet it may end better than I now think, 
for ’tis a good youth.” 

“Assuredly,” said Rebecca, “you shall not re¬ 
pent you of requiting the good deed received of 
the stranger knight.” 

“I trust so daughter,” said Isaac, “and I trust 
too in the rebuilding of Zion; but as well do I 
hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls 
and battlements of the new Temple, as to see a 
Christian, yea, the very best of Christians, repay 
a debt to a Jew, unless under the awe of the judge 
and jailer.” 

So saying, he resumed his discontented walk 
through the apartment; and Rebecca, perceiving 
that her attempts at consolation only served to 


142 


IVANHOE 


awaken new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted 
from her unavailing efforts—a prudential line of 
conduct, and we recommend to all who set up for 
comforters and advisers, to follow it in the like cir¬ 
cumstances. 

The evening was now becoming dark, when a 
Jewish servant entered the apartment, and placed 
upon the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed 
oil; the richest wines, and the most delicate re¬ 
freshments were at the same time displayed by 
another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony table, 
inlaid with silver; for, in the interior of their 
houses, the Jews refused themselves no expensive 
indulgences. At the same time the servant informed 
Isaac that a Nazarene (so they termed Christians, 
while conversing among themselves) desired to 
speak with him. He that would live by traffic, 
must hold himself at the disposal of every one 
claiming business with him. Isaac at once replaced 
on the table the untasted glass of Greek wine which 
he had just raised to his lips, and saying hastily 
to his daughter, “Rebecca, veil thyself,” command¬ 
ed the stranger to be admitted. 

Just as Rebecca had dropped over her fine feat¬ 
ures a screen of silver gauze which reached to her 
feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered, wrapt 
in the ample folds of his Norman mantle. His ap¬ 
pearance was rather suspicious than prepossessing, 
especially as, instead of doffing his bonnet, he 
pulled it still deeper over his rugged brow. 

“Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?” said Gurth, 
in Saxon. 

“I am” replied Isaac, in the same language (for 
his traffic had rendered every tongue spoken in 
Britain familiar to him)—“and who art thou?” 

“That is not to the purpose/” answered Gurth, 


IVANHOE 


143 


“As much as my name is to thee,” replied Isaac; 
“for without knowing thine, how can I hold inter¬ 
course with thee?” 

“Easily,” aswered Gurth; “I, being to pay money, 
must know that I deliver it to the right person; 
thou, who art to receive it, will not, I think, care 
very greatly by whose hands it is delivered.” 

“0,” said the Jew, “you are come to pay moneys? 
Holy Father Abraham! that altereth our relation to 
each other. And from whom dost thou bring it?” 

“From the Disinherited Knight,” said Gurth, 
“victor in this day’s tournament. It is the price 
of the armor supplied to him by Kirjath Jairam of 
Leicester, on thy recommendation. The steed is 
restored to thy stable. I desire to know the amount 
of the sum which I am to pay for the armor.” 

“I said he was a good youth!” exclaimed Isaac, 
with joyful exultation. “A cup of wine will do 
thee no harm,” he added, filling and handing to the 
swineherd a richer draught than Gurth had ever 
before tasted. “And how much money,” continued 
Isaac, “hast thou brought with thee?” 

“Holy Virgin!” said Gurth, setting down the cup, 
“what nectar these unbelieving dogs drink, while 
true Christians are fain to quaff ale as muddy and 
thick as the draff we give to hogs!—What money 
have I brought with me?” continued the Saxon, 
when he had finished this uncivil ejaculation, “even 
but a small sum; something in hand the whilst. 
What, Isaac! thou must bear a conscience, though 
it be a Jewish one.” 

“Nay, but,” said Isaac, “thy master has won 
goodly steeds and rich armors with the strength of 
his lance, and of his right hand—but ’tis a good 


Question ; How do you account for the change in Gurth? 



144 


Ivan hoe 


youth—the Jew will take these in present payment, 
and render him back the surplus.” 

“My master has disposed of them already,” said 
Gurth. 

“Ah! that was wrong,” said the Jew, “that was 
the part of a fool. No Christian here could buy so 
many horses and armor—no Jew except myself 
would give him half the values. But thou hast a 
hundred zecchins with thee in that bag,” said 
Isaac, prying under Gurth’s cloak,; “it is a heavy 
one.” 

“I have heads for crossbow bolts in it,” said 
Gurth, readily. 

“Well, then,” said Isaac, panting and hesitating 
between habitual love of gain and a new-born de¬ 
sire to be liberal in the present instance, “if I 
should say that I would take eighty zecchins for the 
good steed and the rich armor, which leaves me not 
a guilder’s profit, have you money to pay me!’' 

“Barely,” said Gurth, though the sum demanded 
was more reasonable than he expected, “and it will 
leave my master nigh penniless. Nevertheless, if 
such be your least offer, I must be content.” 

“Fill thyself another goblet of wine,” said the 
Jew. “Ah, eighty zecchins is too little. It leaveth 
no profit for the usages of the moneys; and, be¬ 
sides, the good horse may have suffered wrong in 
this day’s encounter. 0, it was a hard and a dan¬ 
gerous meeting! man and steed rushing on each 
other like wild bulls of Bashan! 1 The horse cannot 
but have had wrong.” 

“And I say,” replied Gurth, “he is sound, wind 
and limb; and you may see him now, in your stable. 
And I say, over and above, that seventy zecchins is 
enough for the armor, and I hope a Christian’s 

'Psalm XXII. 




IVANHOE 


145 


word is as good as a Jew’s. If you will not take 
seventy, I will carry this bag” (and he shook it 
til the contents jingled) “back to my master.” 

“Nay, nay!” said Isaac; “lay down the talents 
—the shekels—the eighty zecchins, and thou shalt 
see I will consider thee liberally.” 

Gurth at length complied; and telling out eighty 
zecchins upon the table, the Jew delivered out to 
him an acquittance for the horse and suit of armor. 
The Jew’s hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up 
the first seventy pieces of gold. The last ten he 
told over with much deliberation, pausing, and say¬ 
ing something as he took each piece from the table, 
and dropt it into his purse. It seemed as if his 
avarice were struggling with his better nature, and 
compelling him to pouch zecchin after zecchin, 
while his generosity urged him to restore some 
part at least to his benefactor, or as a donation to 
his agent. His whole speech ran nearly thus: 

“Seventy-one—seventy-two; thy master is a good 
youth—seventy-three, an excellent youth—seventy- 
four—that piece hath been dipt within the ring; 1 
seventy-five—and that looketh light of weight—sev¬ 
enty-six—when thy master wants money, let him 
come to Isaac of York—seventy-seven—that is, with 
reasonable security.” Here he made a considerable 
pause, and Gurth had good hope that the last three 
pieces might escape the fate of their comrades; 
but the enumeration proceeded—“seventy-eight— 
thou are a good fellow—seventy-nine—and deserv- 
est something for thyself—” 

Here the Jew paused again, and looked at the 
last zecchin, intending, doubtless, to bestow it upon 
Gurth. He weighed it upon the tip of his finger, 
and made it ring by dropping it upon the table. Had 

Smaller in circumference than should he. 


146 


IVANHOE 


it rung too flat, or had it felt a hair’s breadth too 
light, generosity had carried the day; but, unhap¬ 
pily for Gurth, the chime was full and true, the 
zecchin plump, newly coined, and a grain above 
weight. Isaac could not find in his heart to part 
with it, so dropt it into his purse as if in absence of 
mind, with the words, “Eighty completes the tale, 
and I trust thy master will reward thee handsomely. 
—Surely,” he added, looking earnestly at the bag, 
“thou hast more coins in that pouch?” 

Gurth grinned, which was his nearest approach 
to a laugh, as he replied, “About the same quantity 
which thou hast just told over so carefully.” He 
then folded the quittance, and put it under his cap, 
adding,—“Peril of thy beard,, Jew, see that this 
be full and ample!” He filled himself, unbidden, a 
third goblet of wine, and left the apartment with¬ 
out ceremony. 

“Rebecca,” said the Jew, “that Ishmaelite hath 
gone somewhat beyond me. Nevertheless his master 
is a good youth—ay, and I am well pleased that he 
hath gained shekels of gold and shekels of silver, 
even by the speed of his horse and by the strength 
of his lance, which, like that of Goliath 1 , the Phili¬ 
stine, might vie with a weaver’s beam.” 

As he turned to receive Rebecca’s answer, he ob¬ 
served, that during his chaffering with Gurth, she 
had left the apartment unperceived. 

In the meanwhile, Gurth had descended the stair 
and, having reached the dark antechamber or hall 
was puzzling about to discover the entrance, when a 
figure in white, shown by a small silver lamp whict 
she held in her hand, beckoned him into a side 
apartment. Gurth had some reluctance to obey the 
summons. Rough and impetuous as a wild boar 


’I Samuel XVII, 4-54. 





IVANHOE 


147 


where only earthly force was to be apprehended, he 
had all the characteristic terrors of a Saxon respect¬ 
ing fauns, forest-fiends, white women, and the whole 
| of the superstitions which his ancestors had brought 
with them from the wilds of Germany. He remem¬ 
bered, moreover, that he was in the house of a Jew, 
a people who, besides the other unamiable qualities 
• which popular report ascribed to them, were sup¬ 
posed to be profound necromancers and cabalists. 
Nevertheless, after a moment’s pause, he obeyed the 
! beckoning summons of the apparition, and followed 
her into the apartment which she indicated, where 
he found to his joyful surprise that his fair guide 
was the beautiful Jewess whom he had seen at the 
tournament, and a short time in her father’s apart¬ 
ment. 

She asked him the particulars of his transaction 
with Isaac, which he detailed accurately, 
i “My father did but jest with thee, good fellow,” 
said Rebecca; “he owes thy master deeper kindness 
than these arms and steed could pay. were their 
value tenfold. What sum didst thou pay my father 
|| even now?” 

“Eighty zecchms,” said Gurth, surprised at the 
I question. 

“In this purse,” said Rebecca, “thou wilt find a 
hundred. Restore to thy master that which is his 
due, and enrich thyself with the remainder. Haste 
—begone—stay not to render thanks! and beware 
how you pass through this crowded town, where 
thou mayst easily lose both thy burden and thy life. 

1 —Reuben,” she added, clapping her hands together, 
“light forth this stranger, and fail not to draw lock 
and bar behind him.” 

Reuben, a dark-browed and black-bearded Israel¬ 
ite, obeyed her summons, with a torch in his hand; 






148 


Ivan hoe 


undid the outward door of the house, and conduct¬ 
ing Gurth across a paved court, let him out through 
a wicket in the entrance-gate, which he closed be¬ 
hind him with such bolts and chains as would well 
have become that of a prison. 

“By St. Dunstan,” said Gurth, as he stumbled up 
the dark avenue, “this is no Jewess, but an angel 
from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young 
master—twenty from this pearl of Zion—Oh, happy 
day!—Such another, Gurth, will redeem thy bond¬ 
age, and make thee a brother as free of thy guild as 
the best. And then do I lay down my swineherd’s 
horn and staff, and take the freeman’s sword and 
buckler, and follow my young master to the death, 
without hiding either my face or my name.” 



CHAPTER XI 


1st Outlaw. Stand, Sip, and throw us that you have about 
^ou. If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you. 

Speed. /Sir, we are undone! these are the villains 
That all travelers do fear so much. 

Val. My friends,— 

1st Out. That’s not so, sir, we are your enemies. 

2d Out. Peace! we’U hear him. 

3 d Out. Ay, by my beard, will we; 

For he’s a proper man. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

1 The nocturnal adventures of Gurth were not yet 
concluded; indeed, he himself became partly of that 
mind, when, after passing one or two straggling 
; houses which stood in the outskirts of the village, 
he found himself in a deep lane, running between 
two banks overgrown with hazel and holly, while 
here and there a dwarf oak hung its arms altogether 
! across the path. The lane was moreover much rut¬ 
ted and broken up by the carriages which had re¬ 
cently transported articles of various kinds to the 
I tournament; and it was dark, for the banks and 
| bushes intercepted the light of the harvest moon. 

From the village were heard the distant sounds of 
revelry, mixed occasionally with loud laughter, some¬ 
times broken by screams, and sometimes by wild 
strains of distant music. All these sounds, intimat¬ 
ing the disorderly state of the town, crowded with 
military nobles and their dissolute attendants, gave 
I Gurth some uneasiness. “The Jewes.3 was right,” 
j he said to himself. “By heaven and St. Dunstan, 
j I would I were safe at my journey’s end with all 
this treasure! Here are such numbers, I will not 

Question : What did Gurth want to do when he got his 
freedom from Cedric? 






150 


IVANHOE 


say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights and 
errant squires, errant monks and errant minstrels, 
errant jugglers and errant jesters, that a man with a 
single merk would be in danger, much more a poor 
swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins. Would 
I were out of the shade of these infernal bushes, 
that I might at least see any of St. Niholas’s clerks 
before they spring on my shoulderlS. ,, 

Gurth accordingly hastened his pace, in order to 
gain the open common to which the lane led, but 
was not so fortunate as to accomplish his object. 
Just as he attained the upper end of the lane, where 
the underwood was thickest, four men sprung upon 
him, even as his fears anticipated, two from each 
side of the road, and seized him so fast, that resist¬ 
ance, if at first practicable, would have been now 
too late.—“Surrender your charge,” said one of 
them; “we are the deliverers of the commonwealth, 
who ease every man of his burden.” 

“You should not e^se me of mine so lightly,” 
muttered Gurth, whose surly honesty could not be 
tamed even by the pressure of immediate violence, 
“had I it in but my power to give three strokes in its 
defense.” 

“We shall see that presently,” said the robber, and 
speaking to his companions, he added, “bring along 
the knave, I see he would have his head broken, as 
well as his purse cut, and so be let blood in two veins 
at once.” 

Gurth was hurried along agreeably to this man¬ 
date, and having been dragged somewhat roughly 
over the bank, on the left-hand side of the lane, 
found himself in a straggling thicket, which lay be¬ 
twixt it and the open common. He was compelled 
to follow his rough conductors into the very depth 

Matron saint of thieves as well as of children. 





Ivan hoe 


151 


of this cover, where they stopped unexpectedly in an 
irregular open space, free in a great measure from 
trees, and on which, therefore, the beams of the 
moon fell without much interruption from bough 
and leaves. Here his captors were joined by two 
other persons, apparently belonging to the gang. 
They had short swords by their sides, and quarter- 
staves in their hands, and Gurth could now observe 
that all six wore visors, which rendered their occu¬ 
pation a matter of no question, even had their form¬ 
er proceedings left in doubt. 

“What money hast thou, churl ?” said one of the 
thieves. 

“Thirty zecchins of my own property,” answered 
Gurth, doggedly. 

“A forfeit—a forfeit,” shouted the robbers- “n 
Saxon hath thirty zecchins, and returns sober from 
a village! An undeniable and unredeemable forfeit 
of all he hath about him.” 

“I hoarded it to purchase my freedom,” said 
Gurth. 

“Thou art an ass,” replied one of the thieves; 
“three quarts of double ale had rendered thee as 
free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be a 
Saxon like thyself.” 

“A sad truth,” replied Gurth; “but if these same 
thirty zecchins will buy my freedom from you, un¬ 
loose my hands, and I will pay them to you.” 

“Hold,” said one who seemed to exercise some 
authority over the others; “this bag which thou 
bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains 
more coin than thou hast told us of. 

“It is the good knight my master's,” answered 
Gurth, “of which, assuredly, I would not have 
spoken a word, had you been satisfied with working 
your will upon mine own property.” 

“Thou art an honest fellow,” replied the robber, 





152 


Ivan hoe 


“I warrant thee; and we worship not St. Nicholas 
so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet 
escape, if thou deal uprightly with us. Meantime 
render up thy trust for the time.” So saying, he 
took from Gurth’s breast the large leathern pouch, 
in which the purse given him by Rebecca was in¬ 
closed, as well as the rest of the zecchins, and then 
continued his interrogation.—“Who is thy master?” 

“The Disinherited Knight,” said Gurth. 

“Whose good lance,” replied the robber, “won the 
prize in to-day’s tourney? What is his name and 
lineage?” 

*Tt is his pleasure,” answered Gurth, “that they 
be concealed; and from me, assuredly, you will learn 
naught of them.” 

“What is thine own name and lineage?’’ 

“To tell that,” said Gurth, “might reveal my 
master’s.” 

“Thou art a saucy groom,” said the robber, “but 
of that anon. How comes thy master by this gold? 
Is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath it 
accrued to him?” 

“By his good lance,” answered Gurth.—“These 
bags contain the ransom of four good horses, and 
four good suits of armor.” 

“How much is there?” demanded the robber. 

“Two hundred zecchins.” 

“Only two hundred zecchins!” said the bandit; 
“your master hath dealt liberally by the vanquished, 
and put them to a cheap ransom. Name those who 
paid the gold.” 

Gurth did so. 

“The armor and horse of the Templar Brian de 
Bois-Guilbert, at what ransom were they held?— 
Thou seest thou canst not deceive me.” 

“My master,” replied Gurth, “will take naught 



IVANHOE 


153 


| fiom the Templar save his life’s blood. They ar^ 
i on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold courte¬ 
ous intercourse together.” 

‘Indeed!” repeated the robber, and paused after 
| he. had said the word. “And what wert thou now 
doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy custody?” 

“I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of 
York,” replied Gurth, “the price of a suit of armor 
with which he fitted my master for this tournament.’’ 

“And how much didst thou pay to Isaac?—Me- 
thinks to judge by weight, there is still two hundred 
zecchins in this pouch.” 

“I paid to Isaac,” said the Saxon, “eighty zec¬ 
chins, and he restored me a hundred in lieu there¬ 
of.” 

“How! what!” exclaimed all the robbers at once; 
“darest thou trifle with us, that thou tellest such 
improbable lies?” 

“What I tell you,” said Gurth, “is as true as the 
moon is in heaven. You will find the just sum in 
a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and sepa¬ 
rate from the rest of the gold.” 

“Bethink thee, man,” said the Captain, “thou 
speakest of a Jew—of an Israelite,—as unapt to 
restore gold as the dry sand of his deserts to return 
the cup of water which the pilgrim spills upon 
them.” 

“There is no more mercy in them,” said another 
of the banditti, “than in an unbribed sheriff’s of¬ 
ficer.” 

“It is, however, as I say,” said Gurth. 

“Strike a light instantly,” said the Captain; “I 
will examine this said purse; and if it be as this 
I fellow says, the Jew’s bounty is little less miracu- 
| lous than the stream which relieved his fathers in 
the wilderness.” 



154 


Ivan hoe 


A light was procured accordingly, and the robber 
proceeded to examine the purse. The others crowded 
around him, and even two who had hold of Gurth 
relaxed their grasp while they stretched their necks 
to see the issue of the search. Availing himself of 
their negligence, by a sudden exertion of strength 
and activity, Gurth shook himself free of their hold, 
and might have escaped, could he have resolved to 
leave his master’s property behind him. But such 
was no part of his intention. He wrenched a quar¬ 
ter-staff from one of the fellows, struck down the 
Captain, who was altogether unaware of his pur¬ 
pose, and had well-nigh repossessed himself of the 
pouch and treasure. The thieves, however, were too 
nimble for him, and again secured both the bag and 
the trusty Gurth. 

“Knave!” said the Captain, getting up, “thou hast 
broken my head; and with other men of our sort 
thou wouldst fare the worse for thy insolence. But 
thou shalt know thy fate instantly. First let us 
speak of thy master; the knight’s matters must go 
before the squire’s, according to due order of chival¬ 
ry. Stand thou fast in the meantime—if thou stir 
again, thou shalt have that will make thee quiet for 
life.—Comrades!” he then said, addressing his gang, 
“this purse is embroidered with flebrew characters, 
and I well believe the yeoman’s tale is true. The 
errant knight, his master, must needs pass us toll- 
free. He is too like ourselves for us to make booty 
of him, since dogs should not worry dogs where 
wolves and foxes are to be found in abundance.” 

“Like us?” answered one of the gang; “I should 
like to hear how that is made good.” 

“Why, thou fool,” answered the Captain, “is he 
not poor and disinherited as we are?—Doth he not 
win his substance at the sword’s point as we do?—- 



IVANHOE 


155 


Hath he not beaten Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, 
even as we would beat them if we could? It he not 
the enemy to life and death of Brian de Bois-Guil- 
bert, whom we have so much reason to fear? And 
were all this otherwise, wouldst thou have us show 
a worse conscience than an unbeliever, a Hebrew 
Jew?” 

“Nay, that were a shame,” muttered the other 
fellow; “and yet, when I served in the band of 
stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of con¬ 
science. And this insolent peasant,—he too, I war¬ 
rant me,, is to be dismissed scatheless?” 

“Not if thou canst scathe him,” replied the Cap¬ 
tain.—“Here, fellow,” continued he, addressing 
Gurth, “canst thou use the staff, that thou startst 
to it so readily?” 

“I think,” said Gurth, “thou shouldst be best able 
to reply to that question.” 

“Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round 
knock,” replied the Captain; “do as much for this 
fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free, and if thou 
dost not—why, by my faith, as thou art such a 
sturdy knave, I think I must pay thy ransom my¬ 
self.—Take thy staff, Miller,” he added, “and keep 
thy head; .and do you others let the fellow go, and 
give him a staff—there is light enough to lay on 
load 1 by.” 

The two champions being alike armed with quar¬ 
ter-staves, stepped forward into the center of the 
open space, in order to have the full benefit of the 
moonlight; the thieves in the meantime laughing, 
and crying to their comrade, “Miller! beware thy 


lr To lay on strokes, to fight. 

Question : Are the outlaws introduced for the first 
time into the story? Has any one of them been seen be¬ 
fore? 





156 


Ivan hoe 


toll-dish.” 1 2 The Miller, on the other hand, holding 
his quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flour¬ 
ish round his head after the fashion which the 
French call faire le moulinet; exclaimed boastful¬ 
ly, “Come on, churl, an thou darest: thou shalt feel 
the strength of a miller’s thumb 3 !” 

“If thou be’st a miller,” answered Gurth, un¬ 
dauntedly, making his weapon play around his head 
with equal dexterity, “thou art doubly a thief, and 
I, as a true man, bid thee defiance.” 

So saying, the two champions closed together, and 
for a few minutes they displayed great equality in 
strength, courage, and skill, intercepting and return¬ 
ing the blows of their adversary with the most rapid 
dexterity, while, from the continued clatter of their 
weapons, a person at a distance might have sup¬ 
posed that there were at least six persons engaged 
on each side. Less obstinate, and even less danger¬ 
ous combats, have been described in good heroic 
verse; but that of Gurth and the Miller must remain 
unsung, for want of a sacred poet to do justice to its 
eventful progress. Yet, though quarter-staff play 
be out of date, what we can in prose we will do for 
these bold champions. 

Long they fought equally, until the Miller began 
to lose temper at finding himself so stoutly opposed, 
and at hearing the laughter of his companions, who 
as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation. This 
was not a state of mind favorable to the noble game 
of quarter-staff, in which, as in ordinary cudgel¬ 
playing, the utmost coolness is requisite; and it 


a A dish for measuring grain tolls, or the miller’s share 
of the grain ; the miller’s head is meant here. 

2 To play the wind mill. 

“Since a miller used his thumb in testing flour, his thumb j 
was supposed to be large and flat. 






Ivan hoe 


157 


: gave Gurth, whose temper was steady, though surly, 
the opportunity of acquiring a decided advantage, 
in availing himself of which he displayed great 
| mastery. 

The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing 
blows with either end of his weapon alternately, and 
striving to come to half-staff distance, while Gurth 
! defended himself against the attack, keeping his 
hands about a yard asunder, and covering himself 
by shifting his weapon with great celerity, so as 
to protect his head and body. Thus did he maintain 
[ the defensive, making his eye, foot, and hand keep 
true time, until, observing his antagonist to lose 
wind, he darted the staff at his face with his left 
hand; and as the Miller endeavored to parry the 
thrust, he slid his right hand down to his left, and 
I with the full swing of the weapon struck his oppo- 
; nent on the left side of the head, who instantly 
measured his length upon the greensward. 

“Well and yeomanly done!” shouted the robbers; 
j “fair play and old England forever! The Saxon 
: hath saved both his purse and his hide, and the 
Miller has met his match.” 

“Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend,” said the 
Captain, addressing Gurth, in special confirmation 
of the general voice, “and I will cause two of my 
comrades to guide thee by the best way to thy mas¬ 
ter’s pavilion, and to guard thee from night-walk¬ 
ers that might have less tender consciences than 
ours; for there is many one of them upon the amble 
in such a night as this. Take heed, however,” he 
il added sternly; “remember thou hast refused to tell 
| thy name—ask not after ours, nor endeavor to 
I discover who or what we are; for, if thou makest 
! such an attempt, thou wilt come by worse foitune 
than has yet befallen thee.” 




158 


IVANHOE 


Gurth thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and 
promised to attend to his recommendation. Two of 
the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves and de¬ 
siring Gurth to follow close in the rear, walked 
roundly forward along a by-path, which traversed 
the thicket and the broken ground adjacent to it. 
On the very verge of the thicket two men spoke 
to his conductors, and receiving an answer in a 
whisper, withdrew into the woods, and suffered 
them to pass unmolested. This circumstance in¬ 
duced Gurth to believe both that the gang was 
strong in numbers, and that they kept regular 
guards around their place of rendezvous. 

When they arrived on the open heath, where 
Gurth might have had some trouble in finding his 
road, the thieves guided him straight forward to the 
top of a little eminence, whence he could see, spread 
beneath him in the moonlight, the palisades of the 
lists, the glimmering pavilions pitched at either 
end, with the pennons which adorned them flutter¬ 
ing in the moonbeams, and from which could be 
heard the hum of the song with which the sentinels 
were beguiling their night-watch. 

Here the thieves stopt. 

“We go with you no farther,” said they; “it were 
not safe that we should do so.—Remember the warn¬ 
ing you have received—keep secret what has this 
night befallen you, and you will have no room to re¬ 
pent it—neglect what is now told you, and the Tower 
of London shall not protect you against our re- 
venge. ,, 

“Good-night to you, kind sirs,” said Gurth; “I 
shall remember your orders, and trust that there is 
no offense in wishing you a safer and an honester 
trade.” 

Thus they parted, the outlaws returning in the 



I 

IVANHOE 159 

j direction from whence they had come, and Gurth 
proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom, not¬ 
withstanding the injunction he had received, he 
; communicated the whole adventure of the evening. 

The Disinherited Knight waJs filled with astonish¬ 
ment, no less at the generosity of Rebecca, by which, 
however, he resolved he would not profit, than that 
of the robbers, to whose profession such a quality 
seemed totally foreign. His course of reflections 
upon these singular circumstances was, however, 
interrupted by the necessity for taking repose, 
which the fatigue of the preceding day, and the 
propriety of refreshing himself for the morrow’s en¬ 
counter, rendered alike indispensable. 

The knight, therefore, 'stretched himself for re¬ 
pose upon a rich couch with which the tent was 
provided; and the faithful; Gurth,,, extending his 
hardy limbs upon a bear-skin which formed a sort 
of carpet to the pavilion, laid himself across tht 
opening of the tent, so that no one could enter with¬ 
out awakening him. 




CHAPTER XII 

The heralds left their pricking up and down, 

Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion. 

There is no more to say, but east and west, 

In go the spears full sadly in the rest, 

In go the sharp spur into the side, 

There are seen men who can just and who can ride; 
There shiver shafts upon shieldes thick, 

He feeleth through the heart-spoon the prick; 

Up springen speares, twenty feet in height, 

Out go the swordes as the silver bright; 

The helmes they to-hewn and to-shred; 

Out bursts the blood with stern streames red. 

Chatjceb. 

Morning arose in unclouded splendor, and ere the 
sun was much above the horizon, the idlest or the 
most eager of the spectators appeared on the com¬ 
mon, moving to the lists as to a general center, in 
order to secure a favorable situation for viewing the 
continuation of the expected games. 

The marshals and their attendants appeared next 
on the field, together with the heralds, for the pur¬ 
pose of receiving the names of the knights who in¬ 
tended to joust, with the feide which each chose to 
espouse. This was a necessary precaution, in order 
to secure equality betwixt the two bodies who should 
be opposed to each other. 

According to due formality, the Disinherited 
Knight was to be considered as leader of the one 
body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been 
rated a)3 having done second-best in the preceding 
day, was named first champion of the other band. 
Those who had concurred in the challenge adhered 
to his party of course, excepting only Ralph de 
Vipont, whom his fall had rendered unfit so soon to 
put on his armor* There was no want of distin- 





IVANHOE 


161 


guished and noble candidates to fill up the ranks on 
either side. 

In fact, although the general tournament, in 
which all knights fought at once, was more danger¬ 
ous than single encounters, they were nevertheless, 
more frequented and practiced by the chivalry of 
the age. Many knights, who had not sufficient con¬ 
fidence in their own skill to defy a single adversary 
of high reputation, were, nevertheless, desirous of 
displaying their valor in the general combat, where 
they might meet others with whom they were more 
upon an equality. On the present occasion, about 
fifty knights were inscribed as desirous of combat¬ 
ing upon each side, when the marshals declared that 
no more could be admitted, to the disappointment 
of several who were too late in preferring their 
claim to be included. 

About the hour of ten o’clock, the whole plain was 
crowded with horsemen, horsewomen, and foot-pas¬ 
sengers, hastening to the tournament; and shortly 
after, a grand flourish of trumpets announced 
Prince John and his retinue attended by many of 
those knights who meant to take share in the game, 
as well as others who had no such intention. 

About the same time arrived Cedric the Saxon, 
with the Lady Rowena, unattended, however, 'by 
Athelstane. This Saxon lord had arrayed his talJ 
and strong person in armor, in order to take his 
place among the combatants; and, considerably to 
the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to enlist himself 
on the part of the Knight Templar. The Saxon, 
indeed, had remonstrated strongly wth his friend 
upon the injudicious choice he had made of his 
party; but he had only received that sort of answer 
usually given by those who are more obstinate in 




162 


IVANHOE 


following their own course, than strong in justify¬ 
ing it. . 

His best, if not his only reason, for adhering to 
the party of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Athelstane had 
the prudence to keep to himself. Though his apathy 
of disposition prevented his taking any means to 
recommend himself to the Lady Rowena, he was, 
nevertheless, by no means insensible to her charms, 
and considered his union with her as a matter al¬ 
ready fixed beyond doubt, by the assent of Cedric 
and her other friends. It had therefore been with 
smothered displeasure that the proud though indo¬ 
lent Lord Coningsburgh beheld the victor of the 
preceding day select Rowena as the object of that 
honor which it became his privilege to confer. In 
order to punish him for a preference which seemed 
to interfere with his own suit, Athelstane, confident 
of his strength, and to whom his flatterers, at least, 
ascribed great skill in arms, had determined not 
only to deprive the Disinherited Knight of his pow¬ 
erful succor, but, if an opportunity should occur, to 
make him feel the weight of his battle-ax. 

De Bracy, and other knights attached to Prince 
John, in obedience to a hint from him, had joined 
the party of the challengers, John being desirous to 
secure, if possible, the victory to that side. On the 
other hand, many other knights, both English and 
Norman, natives and strangers, took part against 
the challengers, the more readily that the opposite 
band was to be led by so distinguished a champion 
as the Disinherited Knight had approved himself. 

As isoon as Prince John observed that the destined 
Queen of the day had arrived upon the *Wd, assum¬ 
ing that air of courtesy which sat well upon him, 
when he was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward 
to meet her, doffed his bonnet, and alighting from 



IVANHOE 


163 


j 

I his horse, assisted the Lady Rowena from her saddle, 
while his followers uncovered at the same time, and 
one of the most distinguished dismounted to hold 
: her palfrey. 

“It is thus,” said Prince John, “that we set the 

! dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of Love and 
"Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne 
which she must this day occupy.—Ladies,” he said, 

, “attend your Queen, as you wish in your turn to be 
distinguished by like honors.” 

So saying, the Prince marshaled Rowena to the 
seat of honor opposite his own, while the fairest and 
most distinguished ladies present crowded after her 
to obtain places as near as possible to their tem¬ 
porary sovereign. 

No sooner was Rowena seated, than a burst of 
music, half-drowned by the shouts of the multitude, 
greeted her new dignity. Meantime, the sun shone 
fierce and bright upon the polished arms of the 
| knights of either side, who crowded the opposite ex¬ 
tremities of the lists, and held eager conference to- 
i gether concerning the best mode of arranging their 
I line of battle, and supporting the conflict. 

The heralds then proclaimed silence until the 
j laws of the tourney should be rehearsed. These 
were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers 
of the day; a precaution the more necessary, as the 
conflict was to be maintained with sharp swords and 
pointed lances. 

The champions were therefore prohibited to 
thrust with the sword, and were confined to strik- 
1 ing. A knight, it was announced, might use a mace 
or battle-ax at pleasure, but the dagger was a pro¬ 
hibited weapon. A knight unhorsed might renew 

I Question : What was Athelstane’s real reason for choos- 
I ing to be one of the party of Brian de Bois-Gilbert? 





164 


IVANHOE 


the fight on foot with any other on the opposite side 
in the same predicament; but mounted horsemen 
were in that case forbidden to assail him. When 
any knight could force his antagonist to the extremi¬ 
ty of the lists, so as to touch the palisade with his 
person or arms, such opponent was obliged to yield 
himself vanquished, and his armor and horse were 
placed at the disposal of the conqueror. A knight 
thus overcome was not permitted to take farther 
share in the combat. If any combatant was struck 
down, and unable to recover his feet, his squire or 
page might enter the lists, and drag his master out 
of the press; but in that case the knight was ad¬ 
judged vanquished, and his arms and horse declared 
forfeited. The combat was to cease as soon as 
Prince John should throw down his leading staff, or 
truncheon; another precaution usually taken to pre¬ 
vent the unnecessary effusion of blood by the too 
long endurance of a sport so desperate. Any knight 
breaking the rules of the tournament, or otherwise 
transgressing the rules of honorable chivalry, was 
liable to be stripped of his arms, and, having his 
shield reversed, to be placed in that posture astride 
upon the bars of the palfsade, and exposed to public 
derision, in punishment of his unknightly conduct. 
Having announced these precautions, the heralds 
concluded with an exhortation to each knight to do 
his duty, and to merit favor from the Queen of 
Beauty and Love. 

This proclamation having been made, the heralds 
withdrew to their stations. The knights, entering 
at either end of the lists in long procession, ar¬ 
ranged themselves in a double file, precisely opposite 
to each other, the leader of each party being in the 

Question : What were the rules of the combat for the 
second day? 




Ivan hoe 


165 


center of the foremost rank, a post which he did not 
occupy until each had carefully arranged the ranks 
of his party, and stationed every one in his place. 

It was a goodly, and at the same time an anxious, 
sight, to behold so many gallant champions, 
mounted bravely, and armed richly, stand ready pre¬ 
pared for an encounter so formidable, seated on 
their war-saddles like so many pillars of iron, and 
awaiting the -signal of encounter with the same 
; ardor as their generous steeds, which, by neighing 
! and pawing the ground, gave signal of their im¬ 
patience. 

As yet the knights held their long lances upright, 
their bright points glancing to the sun, and the 
! streamers with which they were decorated flutter- 
! ing over the plumage of the helmets. Thus they 
i remained while the marshals of the field surveyed 
their ranks with the utmost exactness, lest either 
party had more or fewer than the appointed num¬ 
ber. The tale was found exactly complete. The 
marshals then withdrew from the lists, and William 
de Wyvil, with a voice of thunder, pronounced the 
signal words —Laissez aller ! 1 The trumpets sounded 
as he spoke—the spears of the champions were at 
once lowered and placed in the rests—the spurs 
were dashed into the flanks of the horses, and the 
two foremost ranks of either party rushed upon 
each other in full gallop, and met in the middle of 
the lists with a shock, the sound of which was heard 
at a mile’s distance. The rear rank of each party 
advanced at a slower pace to sustain the defeated, 
and follow up the succecs of the victors of their 
party. 

The consequences of the encounter were not in¬ 
stantly seen, for the dust raised by the trampling 


'Let go. 




166 


IVANHOE 


of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was a 
minute ere the anxious spectators could see the late 
of the encounter. When the fight became visible, 
half the knights on each side were dismounted, some 
by the dexterity of their adversary's lance,—some 
by the superior weight and strength of opponents, 
which had borne down both horse and man,—some 
lay stretched on earth as if never more to rise,-— 
some had already gained their feet, and were clos¬ 
ing hand to hand with those of their antagonists 
who were in the same predicament,—and several on 
both sides, who had received wounds by which they 
were disabled, were stopping their blood by their 
scarfs, and endeavoring to extricate themselves 
from the tumult. The mounted knights, whose 
lances had been almost all broken by the fury of 
the encounter, were now closely engaged with their 
swords, shouting their war-cries, and exchanging 
buffets, as if honor and life depended on the issue 
of the combat. 

The tumult was presently increased by the ad¬ 
vance of the second rank on either side, which, act¬ 
ing as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their com¬ 
panions. The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert 
shouted: “Ha! Beau-seant ! 1 Beau-seant !—For the 
Temple—For the Temple!” The opposite party 
shouted in answer— “Desdichado! Desdichado !”— 
which watchword they took from the motto upon 
their leader’s shield. 

The champions thus encountering each other with 
the utmost fury, and with alternate success the tide 
of battle seemed to flow now toward the southern, 

lt4 Beau seant was the name of the Templar’s banner, 
which was half black and half white to intimate, it is 
said, that they were candid and fair toward Christians, but 
black and terrible toward infidels.”—Scott. 





IVANHOE 


167 


now toward the northern extremity of the lists, as 
the one or the other party prevailed. Meantime the 
clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combat¬ 
ants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the trum- 
! pets, and drowned the groans of those who fell and 
lay rolling defenseless beneath the feet of the 
horses. The splendid armor of the combatants was 
| now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at 
every stroke of the sword and battle-ax. The gay 
plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the 
| breeze like snowflakes. All that was beautiful and 
graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and 
what was now visible was only calculated to awake 
terror or compassion. 

Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the 
vulgar spectators, who are naturally attracted by 
| sights of horror, but even the ladies of distinction, 
who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a 
thrilling interest certainly, but without a wish to 
withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible. Here 
and there, indeed, a fair cheek might turn pale, or 
a faint scream might be heard, as a lover, a brother, 
or a husband, tvas struck from his horse. But, in 
general, the ladies around encouraged the combat- 
j ants, not only by clapping their hands and waving 
their veils and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming, 
“Brave lance! Good sword!” when any successful 
thrust or blow took place under their observation. 

Such being the interest taken by the fair sex in 
this bloody game, that of the men is the more easily 
understood. It showed itself in loud acclamations 
upon every change of fortune, while all eyes were 
|! so riveted on the lists, that the spectators seemed as 
jj if they themselves had dealt and received the blows 
I which were there so freely bestowed. And between 
every pause was heard the voice of the heralds, ex- 







168 


IVANHOE 


claiming, “Fight on, brave knights! Mjan dies, but 
glory lives!—Fight on—death is better than defeat! 
—Fight on, brave knights!—for bright eyes behold 
your deeds!” 

Amid the varied fortunes of the combat, the eyes 
of all endeavored to discover the leaders of each 
band, who, mingling in the thick of the fight, en¬ 
couraged their companions both by voice and ex¬ 
ample. Both displayed great feats of gallantry, nor 
did either Bois-Guilbert or the Disinherited Knight 
find in the ranks opposed to them a champion who 
could be termed their unquestioned match. They 
repeatedly endeavored to single out each other, 
spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the 
fall of either leader might be considered as decisive 
of victory. Such, however, was the crowd and con¬ 
fusion, that, during the earlier part of the conflict, 
their efforts to meet were unavailing, and they were 
repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their fol¬ 
lowers, each of whom was anxious to win honor, by 
measuring his strength against the leader of the 
opposite party. 

But when the field became thin by the numbers 
on either side who had yielded themselves van¬ 
quished, had been compelled to the extremity of the 
lists, or been otherwise rendered incapable of con¬ 
tinuing the strife, the Templar and the Disinherited 
Knight at length encountered hand to hand, with all 
the fury that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry of 
honor, could inspire. Such was the address of each 
in parrying and striking, that the spectators broke 
forth into a unanimous and involuntary shout, ex¬ 
pressive of their delight and admiration. 

But at this moment the party of the Disinherited 
Knight had the worst; the gigantic arm of Front-de- 
Bceuf on the one flank, and the ponderous strength 



IVANHOE 


169 


of Athelstane on the other, bearing down and dis¬ 
persing those immediately exposed to them. Find¬ 
ing themselves freed from their immediate antago¬ 
nists, it seems to have occurred to both these 
knights at the same instant that they would render 
the most decisive advantage to their party, by aid¬ 
ing the Templar in his contest with his rival. Turn¬ 
ing their horses, therefore, at the same moment, the 
Norman spurred against the Disinherited Knight 
on the one side, and the Saxon on the other. It was 
utterly impossible that the object of this unequal 
; and unexpected assault could have sustained it, had 
he not been warned by a general cry from the spec¬ 
tators, who could not but take interest in one ex¬ 
posed to such disadvantage. 

“Beware I beware! Sir Disinherited!”• was 
shouted so universally, that the knight became 
aware of his danger; and, (striking a full blow at the 
Templar, he reined back his steed in the same mo¬ 
ment, so as to escape the charge of Athelstane and 
Front-de-Boeuf. These knights, therefore, their aim 
being thus eluded, rushed from opposite sides be¬ 
twixt the object of their attack and the Templar, al¬ 
most running their horses against each other ere 
they could 'stop their career. Recovering their 
horses, and wheeling them round, the whole three 
pursued their united purpose of bearing to the earth 
the Disinherited Knight. 

Nothing could have saved him, except the remark¬ 
able strength and activity of the noble horse which 
he had won on the preceding day. 

This stood him in the more stead, as the horse of 
Bois-Guilbert was wounded, and those of Front-de- 
Boeuf and Athelstane were both tired with the 
weight of their gigantic masters, clad in complete 
armor, and with the preceding exertions of the day. 




170 


IVANHOE 


The masterly horsemanship of the Disinherited 
Knight, and the activity of the noble animal which 
he mounted, enabled him for a few minutes to keep 
at sword’s point his three antagonists, turning and 
wheeling with the agility of a hawk upon the wing, 
keeping his enemies as far separate as he could, and 
rushing now against the one, now against the other, 
dealing sweeping blowis with his sword, without 
waiting to receive those which were aimed at him 
in return. 

But although the lists rang with the applauses 
of his dexterity, it was evident that he must at least 
be overpowered; and the nobles around Prince John 
implored him with one voice to throw down his 
warder, and to save so brave a knight from the dis¬ 
grace of being overcome by odds. 

“Not I, by the light of heaven!” answered Prince 
John; “this same (springal, who conceals his name, 
and despises our proffered hospitality, hath already 
gained one prize, and may now afford to let others 
have their turn.” As he spoke thus, an unexpected 
incident changed the fortune of the day. 

There was among the ranks of the Disinherited 
Knight a champion in black armor, mounted on a 
black horse, large of size, tall, and to all appeal ance 
powerful and strong, like the rider by whom he was 
mounted. This knight, who bore on his hield no 
device of any kind, had hitherto evinced very little 
interest in the event of the fight, beating off with 
seeming ease those combatants who attacked him, 
but neither pursuing his advantages, nor himself 
assailing any one. In short, he had hitherto acted 
the part rather of a spectator than of a party in 
the tournament, a circumstance which procured him 
among the spectators the name of Le Noir Faineant , 
or the Black Sluggard. 



IVANHOE 


171 


At once this knight seemed to throw aside his 
apathy, when he discovered the leader of his party 
so hard bested; for, setting spurs to his horse, which 
was quite fresh, he came to his assistance like a 
thunderbolt, exclaiming, in a voice like a trumpet- 
call, “Desdichado, to the rescue!” It was high 
time; for, while the Disinherited Knight was press¬ 
ing upon the Templar, Front-de-Bceuf had got nigh 
to him with his uplifted sword; but ere the blow 
could descend, the Sable Knight dealt a stroke on 
his head, which, glancing from the polished helmet, 
lighted with violence scarcely abated on the cham- 
fro.i, 1 of the steed, and Front-de-Boeuf rolled on the 
ground, both horse and man equally stunned by the 
fury of the blow. Le Noir Faineant then turned his 
horse upon Athelstane of Coningsburgh; and his 
own sword having been broken in his encounter 
with Front-de-Boeuf, he wrenched from the hand of 
the bulky Saxon the battle-ax which he wielded, 
and like one familiar with the use of the weapon, 
bestowed him (such a blow upon the crest, that 
Athelstane also lay senseless on the field. Having 
achieved this double feat, for which he was the 
more highly applauded that it was totally unex¬ 
pected from him, the knight seemed to resume the 
sluggishness of his character, returning calmly to 
the northern extremity of the lists, leaving hi>3 lead¬ 
er to cope as he best could with Brian de Bois-Guil- 
bert. This was no longer matter of so much difficul¬ 
ty as formerly. The Templar’s horse had bled much, 
and gave way under the shock of the Disinherited 
Knight’s charge. Brian de Bois-Guilbert rolled on 
the field, encumbered with the stirrup, from which 
he was unable to draw his foot. His antagonist 
sprung from horseback, waved his fatal sword over 

Armor protecting the forehead. 



172 


IVANHOE 


the head of his adversary, and commanded him to i 
yield himself; when Prince John, more moved by 
the Templar’s dangerous situation than he had been 
by that of his rival, saved him the mortification of 
confessing himself vanquished, by casting down his 
warder, and putting an end to the conflict. 

It was, indeed, only the relics and embers of the 
fight which continued to burn; for of the few 
knights who still continued in the lists, the greater 
part had, by tacit consent, forborne the conflict for 
some time, leaving it to be determined by the strife 
of the leaders. 

The squires, who had found it a matter of danger 
and difficulty to attend their masters during the en¬ 
gagement, now thronged into the lists to pay their 
dutiful attendance to the wounded, who were re¬ 
moved with the utmost care and attention to the 
neighboring pavilions, or to the quarters prepared 
for them in the adjoining village. 

Thus ended the memorable field of Ashby-de-la- 
Zouche, one of the most gallantly contested tourna¬ 
ments of that age; for although only four knights, 
including one who was smothered by the heat of his 
armor, had died upon the field, yet upwards of 
thirty were desperately wounded, four or five of 
whom never recovered. Several more were disabled 
for life; and those who escaped best carried the 
marks of the conflict to the grave with them. Hence 
it is always mentioned in the old records, as the 
Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms of Ashby. 

It being now the duty of Prince John to name the 
knight who had done best, he determined that the 
honor of the day remained with the knight whom 
the popular voice had termed Le Noir Faineant. It 
was pointed out to the Prince, in impeachment of 
this decree, that the victory had been in fact won by 







Ivan hoe 


173 


the Disinherited Knight, who, in the course of the 
day, had overcome six champions with his own hand, 
and who had finally unhorsed and struck down the 
leader of the opposite party. But Prince John ad¬ 
hered to his own opinion, on the ground that the 
Disinherited Knight and his party had lost the day 
but for the powerful assistance of the Knight of the 
Black Armor, to whom, therefore, he persisted in 
awarding the prize. 

To the surprise of all present, however, the knight 
thus preferred was nowhere to be found. He had 
left the lists immediately when the conflict ceased, 
and had been observed by some spectators to move 
down one of the forest glades with the same slow 
pace and listless and indifferent manner which had 
procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. 
After he had been summoned twice by sound of 
trumpet, and proclamation of the heralds, it became 
necessary to name another to receive the honors 
' which had been assigned to him. Prince John had 
now no further excuse for resisting the claim of the 
Disinherited Knight whom, therefore, he named the 
champion of the day. 

Through a field slippery with blood, and encum¬ 
bered with broken armor and the bodies of slain 
and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists again 
conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John's 
throne. 

“Disinherited Knight," said Prince John, “since 
by that title only you will consent to be known to us, 
we a second time award to you the honors of this 
tournament, and announce to you your right to 
claim and receive from the hand*" of the Queen of 
Love and Beauty the Chaplet of Honor which your 
valor has justly deserved.” The Knight bowed low 
and gracefully, but returned no answer. 



174 


IVANHOE 


While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds 
strained their voices in proclaiming honor to the 
brave and glory to the victor, while ladies waved 
their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and 
while all ranks joined in a clamorous shout of ex¬ 
ultation, the marshals conducted the Disinherited 
Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of 
honor which was occupied by the Lady Rowena. 

On the lower step of this throne the champion 
was made to kneel down. Indeed, his whole action 
since the fight had ended seemed rather to have been 
upon the impulse of those around him than from 
his own free will; and it was observed that he tot¬ 
tered as they guided him the second time across the 
lists. Rowena, descending from her station with a 
graceful and dignified step, was about to place the 
chaplet which she held in her hand upon the helmet 
of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed with 
one voice, “It must not be thus—his head must fie 
bare.” The knight muttered faintly a few words 
which were lost in the hollow of his helmet, but 
their purport seemed to be a desire that his casque 
might not be removed. 

Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the 
marshals paid no attention to his expression of re¬ 
luctance, but unhelmed him by cutting the laces of 
his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. 
When the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet 
sunburnt features of a young man of twenty-five 
were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair hair. 
His countenance was as pale as death, and marked 
in one or two places with streaks of blood. 

Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she ut¬ 
tered a faint shriek; but at once summoning up the 
energy of her disposition, and compelling herself, as 
it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled 



IVANHOE 


175 


with the violence of sudden emotion, she placed up¬ 
on the drooping head of the victor the splendid 
chaplet which was the destined reward of the day, 
and pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these 
words : “I bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, 
as the meed of valor assigned to this day’s victor.” 
Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, 
“And upon brows more worthy could a wreath ef 
chivalry never be placed!” 

The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand 
of the lovely Sovereign by whom his valor had been 
rewarded; and then, sinking yet further forward, 
lay prostrate at her feet. 

There was a general consternation. Cedric, who 
had been struck mute by the sudden appearance "of 
his banished son. now rushed forward, as if to sep¬ 
arate him from Rowena. But this had been already 
accomplished by the marshals of the field, who, 
guessing the cause of Ivanhoe’s swoon, had hartenefl 
to undo his armor, and found that the head of a 
lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a 
wound in his side. 




CHAPTER XIII 


“Heroes, approach!” Atrides thus aloud, 

“Stand forth distinguish’d from the circling crowd, 

Ye who by skill or manly force may claim, 

Your rivals to surpass and merit fame. 

This cow, worth twenty oxen is decreed, 

For him who farthest sends the winged reed.” 

Iliad. 

The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced 
than it flew from mouth to mouth, with all the celer¬ 
ity with which eagerness could convey and curios¬ 
ity receive it. It was not long ere it reached the 
circle of the Prince, whose brow darkened as he 
heard the news. Looking around him, however, with 
an air of scorn, “My Lords.” said he, “and espe¬ 
cially you, Sir Prior, what think ye of the doctrine 
the learned tell us, concerning innate attractions 
and antipathies? Methinks that I felt the presence 
of my brother’s minion, even when I least guessed 
whom yonder suit of armor inclosed.” 

“Front-de-Bceuf must prepare to restore his fief 
of Ivanhoe,” said De Bracy, who. having discharged 
his part honorably in the tournament, had laid his 
shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the 
Prince’s retinue. 

“Av.” answered Waldemar Fitzurse, “this gal¬ 
lant is likely to reclaim the castle and manor which 
Richard assigned to him, and which your Highness’s 
generosity has since given to Front-de-Bceuf.” 

“Front-de-Boenf.” replied John, “is a man more 
willing to swallow three manors such as Ivanhoe 
than to disgorge one of them. For the rest, sirs. I 


Question: Trace the references to the missing son of 
Cedric and to items that point to the identity of Ivanhoe. 








IVANHOE 


177 


hope none here will deny my right to confer the fiefs 
of the crown upon the faithful followers who are 
around me, and ready to perform the usual military 
service, in the room of those who have wandered to 
foreign countries and can neither render homage 
nor service when called upon.” 

The audience were too much interested in the 
question not to pronounce the Prince's assumed 
right altogether indubitable. “A generous Prince! 

a most noble Lord, who thus takes upon himself 
the task of rewarding his faithful followers!” 

Such were the words which burst from the train, 
expectants all of them of similar grants at the ex¬ 
pense of King Richard’s followers and favorites, if 
indeed they had not as yet received such. Prior 
Aymer also assented to the general proposition, ob¬ 
serving, however, “That the blessed Jerusalem 
could not indeed be termed a foreign country. She 
was communis mater 1 2 —the mother of all Christians. 
But he saw not,” he declared, “how the Knights of 
Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from this, since 
he” (the Prior) “was assured that the crusaders, 
under Richard, had never proceeded much farther 
than Askalon 3 which, as all the world knew, was a 
town of the Philistines, and entitled to none of the 
privileges of the Holy City.” 

Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards 
the place where Ivanhoe had fallen to the ground, 
now returned. “The gallant,” said he, “is likely 
to give your Highness little disturbance, and to 


’Common mother. 

2 A city on the Mediterranean belonging to the Philistines 
in Rible times. 

Question : Whom does Ivanhoe’s appearance disturb? 
Why? 





178 


IVANHOE 


leave Front-de-Boeuf in the quiet possession of his 
gains—he is severely wounded/’ 

“Whatever becomes of him,” said Prince John, 
“he is victor of the day; and were he tenfold cur 
enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother, which 
is perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to— 
our own physician shall attend him.” 

A stern smile curled the Prince’s lip as he spokt, 
Waidemar Fitzurse hastened to reply that Ivanhoe 
was already removed from the lists, and in the cus¬ 
tody of his friends. 

“I was somewhat afflicted,” he said, “to see the 
grief of the Queen of Love and Beauty, whose sov¬ 
ereignty of a day this event has changed into mourn¬ 
ing. I am not a man to be moved bv a woman’s 
lament for her lover, but this same Lady Rowena 
suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of manner, 
that it could only be discovered by her folded hands, 
and her tearless eye, which trembled as it remained 
fixed on the lifeless form before her.” 

“Who is this Lady Rowena/’ said Prince John, 
“of whom we have heard so much?” 

“A Saxon heiress of large possessions,” replied 
the Prior Aymer; “a rose of loveliness, and a jewel 
of wealth; the fairest among a thousand, a bundle of 
myrrh, and a cluster of camphire.” 

“We sliall cheer her sorrows.” said Prince John, 
“and amend her blood, by wedding her to a Norman. 
She seems a minor and must therefore be at our 
royal disposal in marriage.—How sayst thou, De 
Bracy? What thinkest thou of gaining fair lands 
and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the fashion 
of the followers of the Conqueror?” 

“If the lands are to my liking, my lord,” answered 
De Bracy, “it will be hard to displease me with a 
bride; and deeply will I hold myself bound to your 


IVANHOE 


179 


Highness for a good deed, which will fulfill all 
promises made in favor of your servant and vassal/’ 

“We will not forget it,” said Prince John; “and 
that we may instantly go to work, command our 
seneschal presently to order the attendance of the 
Lady Rowena and her company—that is, the rude 
churl her guardian, and the Saxon ox whom the 
Black Knight struck down in the tournament, upon 
this evening’s banquet.—De Bigot,’’ he added to his 
seneschal, “thou wilt word this our second summons 
so courteously as to gratify the pride of these Sax¬ 
ons, and make it impossible for them again to re¬ 
fuse; although, by the bones of Becket/ courtesy to 
them is casting pearls before swine.” 

Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was 
about to give the signal for retiring from the lists, 
when a small billet was put into his hand. 

“From whence?” said Prince John, looking at the 
person by whom it was delivered. 

“From foreign parte, my lord, but from whence 
I know not,” replied his attendant. “A Frenchman 
brought it hither, who said he had ridden night and 
day to put it into the hands of your Highness.” 

The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription, 
and then at the seal, placed so as to secure the flox- 
silk with which the billet was surrounded, and which 
bore the impression of three fleurs-de-lis. John 
then opened the billet with apparent agitation, 
which visibly and greatly increased when he had 
perused the contents, which were expressed in these 
words— 

“Take heed to yourself , for the Devil is unchained /” 


1 Thomas a Becket. Archbishop of Canterbury. Con¬ 
sidered a martyr. Pilgrimages were made to his shrine. 
See Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales, 



180 


IVANHOE 


The Prince turned pale as death, looked first on 
the earth, and then up to heaven, like a man who 
has received news that sentence of execution has 
been passed upon him. Recovering from the first 
effects of his surprise, he took Waldemar Fitzurse 
and De Bracy aside, and put the billet into their 
hands successively. “It means,” he added, in a fal¬ 
tering voice, “that my brother Richard has obtained 
his freedom.” 

“This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,” 
said De Bracy. 

“It is France’s 1 own hand and seal,” replied 
Prince John. 

“It is time, then,” said Fifzurse, “to draw our 
party to a head, either at York, or some other centri¬ 
cal place. A few days later, and it will be indeed 
too late. Your Highness must break sTiort this pres¬ 
ent mummery.” 

“The yeomen and commons,” said De Bracy, 
“must not be dismissed discontented, for lack of 
their share in the sports.” 

“The day,” said Waldemar, “is not yet very far 
spent—let the archers shoot a few rounds at the 
target, and the prize be adjudged. This will be rwi 
abundant fulfilment of the Prince’s promises, so 
far as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned.” 

“I thank thee, Waldemar,” said the Prince; “thou 
remindest me, too, that I have a debt to pay to that 
insolent peasant who yesterday insulted our person. 
Our banquet also <?hall go forward to-night as we 
proposed. Were this my last hour of power, it 
would be an hour sacred to revenge and to pleasure 
—let new cares '’ome with to-morrow’s new day.” 

’Philip of France, 

Question : Why did Scott choose this time to have the 
note concerning Richard brought to Prince John? 



IVANHOE 


181 


The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those 
spectators who had already begun to leave the field; 
and proclamation was made that Prince John, sud¬ 
denly called by high and peremptory public duties, 
held himself obligated to discontinue the entertain¬ 
ments of to-morrow’s festival: nevertheless, that, 
unwilling so many good yeomen should depart with¬ 
out a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, 
before leaving the ground, presently to execute the 
competition of archery intended for the morrow. To 
the best archer a prize was to be awarded, being a 
bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silver bald¬ 
ric richly ornamented with a medallion of SE. 
Hubert, the patron of silvan sport. 

More than thirty yeomen at first presented them¬ 
selves as competitors, several of whom were rangers 
and under-keepers in the royal forests of Needwood 
and Charnwood. When, however, the archers un¬ 
derstood with whom they were to be matched, up¬ 
wards of twenty withdrew themselves from the con¬ 
test. unwilling to encounter the dishonor of almost 
certain defeat. Tor in those days the skill of each 
celebrated marksman was well known for many 
miles round him, as the qualities of a horse trained 
a’t Newmarket 1 are familiar to those who frequent 
that well-known meeting. 

The diminished list of competitors for silvan fame 
still amounted to eight. Prince John stepped from 
his royal seat to view more nearly the persons of 
these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the roy¬ 
al livery. Having satisfied his curiosity by this in- 
vestigfation, he looked for the object of his resent¬ 
ment, whom he observed standing on the same spot, 
and with the same composed countenance which he 
had exhibited upon the preceding day. 


a Town in England noted for its horse races. 






182 


IVANHOE 


<r FelIow,” said Prince John, “I guessed by thy 
insolent babble thou wert no true lover of the long¬ 
bow, 1 and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill 
among such merry-men as istand yonder.” ' 

■‘Under favor, sir,” replied the yeoman, “I have 
another reason for refraining to shoot, besides the 
fearing discomfiture and disgrace.” 

“And what is thy other reason?” said Prince 
John, who, for some cause which, perhaps, he could 
not himself have explained, felt a painful curiosity 
respecting this individual. 

“Because,” replied the woodsman, “I know not if 
these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the same 
marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your 
Grace might relish the winning of a third prize 
by one who has unwittingly fallen under your dis¬ 
pleasure.” 

Prince John colored as he put the question, “What 
is thy name, yeoman?” 

“Locksley,” answered the yeoman. 

“Then, Locksley,” 2 said Prince John, “thou shalt 
shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have displayed 
their skill. If thou earnest the prize, I will aifci 
to it twenty nobles 3 ; but if thou losest it, thou shalt 
be stript of thy Lincoln-green, and scourged out of 
the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent 
braggart/’ 

And how if I refuse to 'shoot on such a wager?” 
said the yeoman.—“Your Grace’s power, supported, 
as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily 
strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend 
or to draw my bow.” 


'About the height of a man; in contrast to short bow. 

2 Robin Hood. 

3 An old English coin, worth a little more than one dollar 

and a half. 



Ivan hoe 


183 


“If thou refusest my fair proffer,” said the 
Prince, “the Provost of the lists shall cut thy bow¬ 
string, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee 
from the presence as a faint-hearted craven.” 

“This is no fair chance you put on me, proua 
Prince,'' said the yeoman, “to compel me to peril 
myself against the best archers of Leicester ana 
* Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they 
should overshoot me. Nevertheless, I will obey your 
pleasure.” 

“Look to him close, men-at-arms,” said Prince 
John; “his heart is sinking. I am jealous lest he 
attempt to escape the trial.—And do you, good fel¬ 
lows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine 
are ready for your refreshment in yonder tent, when 
the prize is won.” 

A target was placed at the upper end of the south¬ 
ern avenue which led to the lists. The contending 
archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of 
the southern access, the distance between that sta¬ 
tion and the mark allowing full distance for what 
was called a shot at rovers. 1 The archers, having 
! previously determined by lot their order of prece¬ 
dence, were to shoot each three shafts in succes¬ 
sion. The sports were regulated by an officer of in¬ 
ferior rank, termed the Provost of the Games; for 
the high rank of the marshals of the lists would 
have been held degraded, had they condescended to 
superintend the sports of the yeomanry. 

One by one the archers, stepping forward, deliv¬ 
ered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of twen¬ 
ty-four arrows, shot in 'succession, ten were fixed in 

*A shot at height or long distance; sometimes to shoot 
at random. 

Question: How does Scott stir up interest in a sec¬ 
ond contest of the day? 





184 


IVANHOE 


the target, and the others ranged so near it, that, 
considering the distance of the mark, it was ac¬ 
counted good archery. Of the ten shafts which nit 
the target, two within the inner ring were shot by 
Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who 
was accordingly pronounced victorious. 

“Now, Locksiey,” said Prince John to the bold 
yeoman, with a bitter smile, “wilt thou try conclu¬ 
sions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, bald¬ 
ric, and quiver to the Provost of the sports V* 

“Sith it be no better,” said Locksiey, “I am con¬ 
tent to try my fortune, on condition that when I have 
shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert’s, he shall 
be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose.” 

“That is but fair,” answered Prince John, “and 
it shall not be refused thee.—If thou dost beat this 
braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver 
pennies for thee.” 

“A man can do but his best,” answered Hubert, 
“but my grandsire drew a good long-bow at Hast¬ 
ings 1 and I trust not to dishonor his memory.” 

The former target was now removed, and a fresh 
one of the same size placed in its room. Hubert, 
who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right 
to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, 
long measuring the distance with his eye, while he 
held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow 
placed on the string. At length he made a step for¬ 
ward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his 
left arm, till the center or grasping-place was nigh 
level with his face, he drew his bowstring to his ear. 
The arrow whistled through the air, and lighted 
within the inner circle of the target, but not exact¬ 
ly in the center. 

“You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,” said 


Tiattle of Hastings, 1066. 




IVANHOE 


185 


his antagonist, bending his bow, “or that had been 
a better shot/’ 

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety 
to pause upon his aim, Locksley stept to the ap¬ 
pointed station, and >shot his arrow as carelessly in 
appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. 
He was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft 
left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two 
inches nearer to the white spot which marked the 
center than that of Hubert. 

“By the light of heaven!” said Prince John to 
Hubert, “an thou suffer that runagate knave to over¬ 
come thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!” 

Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. 
“An your Highness were to hang me/’ he said, “a 
man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grand- 
sire drew a good bow—” 

“The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his gen¬ 
eration!” interrupted John; “sh.oot, knave, and 
shoot thy best, or it shall be the worst for thee!” 

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not 
neglecting the caution which he had received from 
his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for 
a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and 
shot so successfully that his arrows alighted in the 
very center of the target. 

“A Hubert! a Hubert!” shouted the populace, 
more interested in a known person than in a strang¬ 
er. “In the clout!—in the clout!—a Hubert forever!” 

“Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,” said 
the Prince, with an insulting smile. 

“I will notch his shaft for him, however,” replied 
Locksley. And letting fly his arrow with a little 
more precaution than before, it lighted right upon 
that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. 
The people who stood around were so astonished at 


186 


Ivan hoe 


his wonderful dexterity that they could not even 
give vent to their surprise in their usual clamor. 
“This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and 
blood,” whispered the yeomen to each other; “such 
archery was never seen since a bow was first bent 
in Britain.” 

“And now,” said Locksley, “I will crave your 
Grace’s permission to plant such a mark as is used 
in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeo¬ 
man who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from 
the bonny lass he loves best.” 

He then turned to leave the lists. “Let your 
guards attend me,’’ he 'said, “if you please—I go but 
to cut a rod from the next willow-bush.” 

Prince John made a signal that some attendants 
should follow him in case of his escape; but the cry 
of “Shame! Shame!” which burst from the multi¬ 
tude, induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose. 

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow 
wand about six feet in length, perfectly straight, 
and rather thicker than a man’s thumb. He began 
to peel this with great composure, observing at the 
same time, that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at 
a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to 
put shame upon his skill. “For his own part,” he 
said, “and in the land where he was bred, men 
would as soon take for their mark King Arthur’s 
round-table, 1 which held sixty knights around it. A 
child of ‘seven years old,” he said, “might hit yon¬ 
der target with a headless shaft; but,” added he, 
walking deliberately to the other end of the lists, 
and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, 
“he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him 


2 See Tennyson’s Idylls of the Kino for the legend of 

King Arthur and his knights gathered around the round 

table. 








Ivan hoe 


187 


m archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a 
iting an it were the stout King Richard himself.” 

| “My grandsire,” said Hubert, “drew a good bow 
at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a 
nark in his life—and neither will I. If this yeo- 
nan can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers— 
)r rather, I yield to the devil that is in his jerkin, 
md not to any human skill; a man can but do his 
jest, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. 
. might as well shoot at the edge of our parson’s 
vhittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam, as at 
i twinkling white streak which I can hardly see.” 

I “Cowardly dog!” said Prince John.—“Sirrah 
Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a 
nark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. 
Howe’er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a 
nere show of superior skill.” 

“I will do my best, as Hubert says,” answered 
Locksley; “no man can do more.” 

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the pres¬ 
ent occasion looked with attention to his weapon, 
and changed the string, which he thought was no 
longer truly round, having been a little frayed by 
the two former shots. He then took his aim with 
some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the 
event in breathless silence. The archers vindicated 
Itheir opinion of his skill: his arrow split the wil¬ 
low rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of 
acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in ad¬ 
miration of Locksley’s skill, lost for an instant his 
idislike to his person. “These twenty nobles,” he 
isaid, “which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, 
are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt 
take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our 
bodyguard, and be near to our person. For never 




188 


IVANHOE 


did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye 
direct a shaft.” 

“Pardon me, noble Prince,” said Locksley; “bui 
I have vowed, that if ever I take service, it ^should 
be with your royal brother, King Richard. These 
twenty nobles, I leave to Hubert, who has this day 
drawn as brave a bow as his grandsire did at Hast¬ 
ings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he 
would/have hit the wand as well as I.” 

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluc¬ 
tance the bounty of the stranger, and Locksley, anx¬ 
ious to escape further observation, mixed with the 
crowd, and was seen no more. 

The victorious archer would not perhaps have es¬ 
caped John’s attention so easily, had not that Prince 
had other subjects of anxious and more important 
meditation pressing upon his mind at that instant. 
He called upon hi>s chamberlain as he gave the sig¬ 
nal for retiring from the lists, and commanded him 
instantly to gallop to Ashby, and seek out Isaac the 
Jew. “Tell the dog,” he said, “to send me, before 
sundown, two thousand crowns. He knows the se¬ 
curity; but thou mayst show him this ring for a 
token. The rest of the money must be paid at York 
within six days. If he neglects, I will have the un¬ 
believing villain’s head. Look that thou pass him 
not on the way; for the circumcised slave was dis¬ 
playing his stolen finery amongst us.’’ 

So saying, the Prince resumed his horse, and re¬ 
turned to Ashby, the whole crowd breaking up and 
dispersing upon his retreat. 


I 


Question : Do you suppose that Scott has any future, 
use for Locksley? Who is Locksley? 




CHAPTER XIV 


In rough magnificence array’d, 

When ancient Chivalry display'd 
The pomp of her heroic gains, 

And crested chiefs and tissued dames 
Assembled, at the clarion’s call, 

In some proud castle’s high-arch’d hall. 

Warton. 

Prince John held his high festival in the Castle 
of Ashby. This was not the same building of which 
the stately ruins still interest the traveler, and 
which was erected at a later period by the Lord 
Hastings , 1 High Chamberlain of England, one of the 
first victims of the tyranny of Richard the Third, 
and yet better known as one of Shakespeare’s char¬ 
acters than by his historical fame. The castle and 
town of Ashby, at this time, belonged to Roger de 
Quincy, Earl of Winchester, who, during the period 
of our history, was absent in the Holy Land. Prince 
John, in the meanwhile, occupied his castle, and dis¬ 
posed of his domains without scruple; and seeking 
at present to dazzle men’s eyes by his hospitality 
| and magnificence, had given orders for great prepa¬ 
rations, in order to render the banquet as splen¬ 
did as possible. 

The purveyors of the Prince, who exercised on 
this and other occasions the full authority of roy¬ 
alty, had swept the country of all that could be col¬ 
lected which was esteemed fit for their master’s 
table. Guests also were invited in great numbers; 
and in the necessity in which he then found him¬ 
self of courting popularity, Prince John had ex¬ 
tended his invitation to a few distinguished Saxon 


’Upon his return Richard had Lord Hastings executed. 





190 


IVANHOE 


and Danish families, as well as to the Norman no¬ 
bility and gentry of the neighborhood. However 
despised and degraded on ordinary occasions, the 
great numbers of the Anglo-Saxons must necessar¬ 
ily render them formidable in the civil commotions 
which seemed approaching, and it was an obvious 
point of policy to secure popularity with their lead¬ 
ers. 

It was accordingly the Prince's intention, which 
he for some time maintained, to treat these un¬ 
wonted guests with a courtesy to which they had 
been little accustomed. But although no man with 
less scruple made his ordinary habits and feelings 
bend to his interest, it was the misfortune of this 
Prince, that his levity and petulance were perpetual¬ 
ly breaking out, and undoing all that had been 
gained by his previous dissimulation. 

Of this fickle temper he gave a memorable exam¬ 
ple in Ireland, when sent thither by his father, 
Henry the Second, with the purpose of buying gold¬ 
en opinions of the inhabitants of that new and im¬ 
portant acquisition to the English crown. Upon this 
occasion the Irish chieftains contended which 
should first offer to the young Prince their loyal 
homage and the kiss of peace. But, instead of re¬ 
ceiving their salutations with courtesy, John and 
his petulant attendants could not resist the tempta¬ 
tion of pulling the long beards of the Irish chieftains; 
a conduct which, as might have been expected, was 
highly resented by these insulted dignitaries, and 
produced fatal consequences to the English domina¬ 
tion in Ireland. It is necessary to keep these incon¬ 
sistencies of John's character in view, that the read¬ 
er may understand his conduct during the present 
evening. 

In execution of the resolution which he had 




IVANHOE 


191 


formed during his cooler moments, Prince John re¬ 
ceived Cedric and Athelstane with distinguished 
courtesy, and expressed his disappointment, without 
resentment, when the indisposition of Rowena was 
alleged by the former as a reason for her not at¬ 
tending upon hi<3 gracious summons. Cedric and 
Athelstane were both dressed in the ancient Saxon 
garb, which, although not unhandsome in itself, and 
in the present instance composed of costly materi¬ 
als, was so remote in shape and appearance from 
that of the other guests, that Prince John took great 
credit to himself with Waldemar FItzurse for re¬ 
fraining from laughter at a 'sight which the fash¬ 
ion of the day rendered ridiculous. Yet, in the eye 
of sober judgment, the short close tunic and long 
mantle of the Saxons was a more graceful, as well 
as a more convenient dress, than the garb of the 
Normans, whose under garment was a long doublet, 
so loose as to resemble a shirt or wagoner’s frock, 
covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions, neither fit 
to defend the wearer from cold or from rain, and 
the only purpose of which appeared to be to display 
as much fur, embroidery, and jewelry work as the 
ingenuity of the tailor could contrive to lay upon 
it. The Emperor Charlemagne, 1 in whose reign they 
were first introduced, seems to have been very sen¬ 
sible of the inconveniences arising from the fash¬ 
ion of this garment. “In Heaven’s name,” said he, 
“to what purpose serve these abridged cloaks? If 
we are in bed they are no cover, on horseback they 
are no protection from the wind and rain, and when 
seated, they do not guard our legs from the damp 
or the frost.” 

Nevertheless, spite of this imperial objurgation, 

TDmperor of the Franks and Emperor of the Romans in 
the eighth century. 



192 


Ivan hoe 


the short cloaks continued in fashion down to the 
time of which we treat, and particularly among the 
princes of the House of Anjou. They were there¬ 
fore in universal use among Prince John’s court¬ 
iers; and the long mantle, which formed the upper 
garment of the Saxons, was held in proportional de¬ 
rision. 

The guests were seated at a table which groaned 
under the quantity of good cheer. The numerous 
cooks who attended on the Prince’s progress, having 
exerted all their art in varying the forms in which 
the ordinary provisions were served up, had suc¬ 
ceeded almost as well as the modern professors of 
the culinary art in rendering them perfectly unlike 
their natural appearance. Besides these dishes of 
domestic origin, there were various delicacies 
brought from foreign parts, and a quantity of rich 
pastry, as well as of the simnel-bread and wastel 
cakes, which were only used at the tables of the 
highest nobility. The banquet was crowned with 
the richest wines, both foreign and domestic. 

But, though luxurious, the Norman nobles were 
not, generally speaking, an intemperate race. While 
indulging themselves in the pleasures of the table, 
they aimed at delicacy, but avoided excess, and were 
apt to attribute gluttony and drunkenness to the 
vanquished Saxons, as vices peculiar to their infer¬ 
ior station. Prince John, indeed, and those who 
courted his pleasure by imitating his foibles, were 
apt to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the 
trencher and the goblet; and indeed it is well known 
that his death was occasioned by a surfeit upon 
peaches and new ale. His conduct, however, was an 
exception to the genera] manners of his country¬ 
men. 

With sly gravity, interrupted only by private signs 


IVANHOE 


193 


to each other, the Norman knights and nobles beheld 
the ruder demeanor of Athelstane and Cedric at a 
banquet, to the form and fashion of which they were 
unaccustomed. And while their manners were thus 
tne subject of sarcastic observation, the untaught 
Saxons unwittingly transgressed several of the arbi¬ 
trary rules established for the regulation of so¬ 
ciety. Now, it is well known, that a man may with 
more impunity be guilty of an actual breach either 
of real good breeding or of good morals, than ap¬ 
pear ignorant of the most minute point of fashion¬ 
able etiquette. Thus Cedric, who dried his hands 
with a towel, instead of suffering the moisture to ex¬ 
hale by waving them gracefully in the air, incurred 
more ridicule than his companion Athelstane, when 
he swallowed to his own single share the whole of a 
large pasty composed of the most exquisite foreign 
delicacies, and termed at that time a Karum-pie. 
When, however, it was discovered, by a serious 
cross-examination, that the Thane of Coningsburgh 
(or Franklin, as the Normans termed him) had no 
idea what he had been devouring, and that he had 
taken the contents of the Karum-pie for larks and 
pigeons, whereas they were in fact beccaficoes and 
nightingales, his ignorance brought him in for an 
ample share of the ridicule which would have been 
more justly bestowed on his gluttony. 

The long feast had at length its end; and, while 
the goblet circulated freely, men talked of the feats 
of the preceding tournament,—of the unknown vic¬ 
tor in the archery games, of the Black Knight, 
whose self-denial had induced him to withdraw from 
the honors he had won,—and of the gallant Ivan- 

Question : What did Athelstane and Cedric do to make 
themselves appear ridiculous in the sight of the Normans 
at the banquet? 



194 


IVANHOE 


hoe, who had so dearly bought the honors of the 
day. The topics were treated with military frank¬ 
ness, and the jest and laugh went round the hall. 
The brow of Prince John alone was over-clouded 
during these discussions; some overpowering care 
seemed agitating his mind, and it was only when he 
received occasional hints from his attendants, that 
he seemed to take interest in what was passing 
around him. On such occasions he would start up, 
quaff a cup of wine as if to raise his spirits, and 
'-hen mingle in the conversation by some observa¬ 
tion made abruptly or at random. 

“We drink this beaker,” said he, “to the health 
of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, champion of tnis Passage of 
Arms, and grieve that his wound renders him absent 
from our board.—Let all fill to the pledge, and espe¬ 
cially Cedric of Rotherwood, the worthy father of 
a son so promising.” 

‘Wo, my lord,” replied Cedric, ‘standing up, and 
placing on the table his untasted cup, “I yield not 
the name of son to the disobedient youth, who at 
once despises my commands, and relinquishes the 
manners and customs of his fathers.” 

“ ,Tis impossible/’ cried Prince John, with well- 
feigned astonishment, “that so gallant a knight 
should be an unworthy or disobedient son!” 

“Yet, my lord/* answered Cedric, “so it is with 
this Wilfred. He left my homely dwelling to min¬ 
gle with the gay nobility of your brother’s court, 
where He learned to do those tricks of horseman¬ 
ship which you prize so highly. He left it contrary 
to my wish and command; and in the days of Alfred 
that would have been termed disobedience—aye, and 
a crime severely punishable.” 

“Alas! replied Prince John, with a deep sigh of 
affected sympathy, “since your son was a follower 



IVANHOE 


195 


of my unhappy brother, it need not be inquired 
where or from whom he learned the lesson of filial 
disobedience.” 

Thus spake Prince John, willfully forgetting, that 
pf all the sons of Henry the Second, though no one 
was free from the charge, he himself had been most 
distinguished for rebellion and ingratitude to his 
father. 

“I think,” said he after a moment’s pause, “that 
my brother proposed to confer upon his favorite the 
rich manor of Ivanhoe.” 

“He did endow him with it, n answered Cedric; 
“nor is it my least quarrel with my son, that he 
stooped to hold, as a feudal vassal, the very domains 
which his fathers possessed in free and independent 
right.” 

“We shall then have your willing sanction, good 
Cedrick,” said Prince John, “to confer this fief upon 
a person whose dignity will not be diminished by 
holding land of the British crown.—Sir Reginald 
Front-de-Boeuf,” he said, turning towards that 
Baron, “I trust you will so keep the goodly Barony 
of Ivanhoe, that Sir Wilfred shall not incur his 
father’s farther displeasure by again entering upon 
that fief.” 

“By St. Anthony!” answered the black-brow’d 
giant, “I will consent that your highness shall hold 
me a Saxon, if either Cedric or Wilfred, or the best 
that ever bore English blood, shall wrench from me 
that gift with which your highness has graced me.” 

■ “Whoever shall call thee Saxon, Sir Baron,” re¬ 
plied Cedric, offended at a mode of expression by 
which the Normans frequently expressed their hab¬ 
itual contempt of the English, “will do thee an hon¬ 
or as great as it is undeserved.” 



196 


Ivan hoe 


Front-de-Boeuf would have replied, but Prince 
John’s petulance and levity got the start. 

“Assuredly/* said he, “my lords, the noble Cedric 
speaks truth: and his race may claim precedence 
over us as much in the length of their pedigrees as 
the longitude of their cloaks.” 

“They go before us indeed in the field—as deer 
before dogs,” said Malvoisin. 

“And with good right may they go before us— 
forget not,” said the Prior Aymer, “the superior 
decency and decorum of their manners.” 

“Their singular abstemiousness and temperance,” 
said De Bracy, forgetting the plan which promised 
him a Saxon bride. 

“Together with the courage and conduct,” said 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, “by which they distin¬ 
guished themselves at Hastings and elsewhere.” 

While, witlTsmooth and smiling cheek, the court¬ 
iers, each in turn, followed their Prince’s example, 
and aimed a shaft of ridicule at Cedric, the face 
of the Saxon Became inflamed with passion, and he 
glanced his eyes fiercely from one to another, a's if 
the quick succession of so many injuries had pre¬ 
vented his replying to them in turn; or, like a baited 
bull, who. surrounded by his tormentors, is at a loss 
to choose from among them the immediate object oi 
his revenge. At length he spoke, in a voice halt 
choked with passion; and, addressing himself tc 
Prince John as the head and front of the offense 
which he had received, “Whatever,” he said, “have 
been the follies and vices of our race, a Saxon would 
have been held nidering,” 1 (the most emphatic tern: 
for abject worthlessness) “who should in his owr 

^‘There was nothing accounted so ignominious among the 
Saxons as to merit this disgraceful epithet. Even William 
the Conqueror, hated as he was by them, continued to draw 




IVANHOE 


197 


lia.ll, and while his own wine-cup passed, have 
jreated, or suffered to be treated, an unoffending 
tuest as your highness has this day beheld me used; 
ind whatever was the misfortune of our fathers on 
j.he field of Hastings, those may at least be silent,” 
iere he looked at Front-de-Bceuf and the Templar, 
l‘who have within these few hours once and again 
;ost saddle and stirrup before the lance of a Saxon.” 

“By my faith, a biting jest!” said Prince John. 
‘How like you it, sirs?—Our Saxon subjects rise 
in spirit and courage; become shrewd in wit, and 
pold in bearing, in these unsettled times.—What say 
ye, my lords?—By this good light, I hold it best to 
take our galleys, and return to Normandy in time.” 

“For fear of the Saxon?” said De Bracy, laugh¬ 
ing; “we should need no weapon but our hunting 
spears to bring these boars to bay.” 

“A truce with your raillery, Sir Knights,” said 
Fitzurse;—“and it were well,” he added, addressing 
the Prince, “that your highness should assure the 
worthy Cedric there is no insult intended him by 
jests, which must sound but harshly in the ear of a 
strailger.” 

“Insult?” answered Prince John, resuming his 
courtesy of demeanor; “I trust it will not be thought 
that I could mean, or permit any, to be offered in my 
pre:ence. Here! I fill my cup to Cedric himself, 
since he refuses to pledge his son’s health.” 

The cup went fc-ound amid the well-dissembled 
applause of the courtiers, which, however, failed to 
make the impression on the mind of the Saxon that 
had been designed. He was not naturally acute of 

a considerable army of Anglo Saxons to his standard, by 
threatening to stigmatize those who stayed at home as 
nidering. Bartholimus, I think, mentions a similar phrase 
which had like influence on the Danes. L. T. (Scott’s note.) 






198 


Ivan hoe 


perception, but those too much undervalued his un¬ 
derstanding who deemed that this flattering compli¬ 
ment would obliterate the sense of the prior insulv. 
He was silent, however, when the royal pledge again 
passed round, “To Sir Athelstane of Coningsburgh.” 

The knight made his obeisance, and showed nis 
sense of the honor by draining a huge goblet in 
answer to it. 

“And now, sirs,” said Prince John, who began to 
be warmed with the wine which he had drank “hav¬ 
ing done justice to our Saxon guests, we will pray 
of them some requital to our courtesy.—Worthy 
Thane,” he continued, addressing Cedric, “may we 
pray you to name to us some Norman whose mention 
may least sully your mouth, and to wash down w’th 
a goblet of wine all bitterness which the sound may 
leave behind it?” 

Fitzurse arose while Prince John spoke, and glid¬ 
ing behind the seat of the Saxon, whispered to him 
not to omit the opportunity of putting an end to 
unkindness betwixt the two races, by naming Prin'ce 
John. The.Saxon replied not to this polite insinua¬ 
tion, but, rising up, and filling his cup to the brim, 
he addressed Prince John in these words: “Your 
highness has required that I should name a Norman 
deserving to be remembered at our banquet. Th's, 
perchance, is a hard task, since it calls on the slave 
to sing the praises of the master—upon the van¬ 
quished, while pressed by all the evils of conquest, 
to sing the praises of the conqueror. Yet I will 
name a Norman—the first in arms and in place—the 
best and the noblest of his race. And the lips that 
shall refuse to pledge me to his well-earned fame, 

I term false and dishonored, and will so maintain 
them with my life.—I quaff this goblet to the health 
of Richard the Lion-hearted!” 



IVANHOE 


199 


Prince John, who had expected that his own name 
would have closed the Saxon’s speech, started when 
that of his injured brother was so unexpectedly in¬ 
troduced. He raised mechanically the wine-cup to 
his lips, then instantly set it down, to view the de¬ 
meanor of the company at this unexpected proposal, 
which many of them felt it as unsafe to oppose as to 
comply with. Some of them, ancient and experi- 
I enced courtiers, closely imitated the example of the 
Prince himself, raising the goblet to their lips, and 
again replacing it before them. There were many 
who, with a more generous feeling, exclaimed, 
“Long live King Richard! and may he be speedily 
restored to us!” And some few, among whom were 
Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, in sullen disdain 
suffered their goblets to stand untasted before them. 
But no man ventured directly to gainsay a pledge 
filled to the health of the reigning monarch. 

Having enjoyed his triumph for about a minute, 
Cedric said to his companion, “Up, noble Athel- 
stane! we have remained here long enough, since we 
have requited the hospitable courtesy of Prince 
John’s banquet. Those who wish to know further of 
our rude Saxon manners must henceforth seek us 
in the homes of our fathers, since we have seen 
enough of royal banquets, and enough of Norman 
courtesy.” 

So saying, he arose and left the banqueting room, 
followed by Athelstane, and by several other guests, 
who partaking of the Saxon lineage, held themselves 
insulted by the sarcasms of Prince John and his 
courtiers. 

“By the bones of St. Thomas,” said Prince John, 
as they retreated, “the Saxon churls have borne off 
the best of the day, and have retreated with tri¬ 
umph!” 


200 


Ivan hoe 


“Conclamatum est, poculatum est,” said Prior 
Aymer; “we have drunk and we have shouted,—it 
were time we left our wine flagons.” 

“The monk hath some fair penitent to shrive to¬ 
night, that he is in such a hurry to depart,” said De 
Bracy. 

“Not so, Sir Knight,” replied the Abbot; “but I 
must move several miles forward this evening upon 
my homeward journey.” 

“They are breaking up,” said the Prince in a 
whisper to Fitzurse; “their fears anticipate the 
event, and this coward Prior is the first to shrink 
from me.” 

“Fear not, my lord,” said Waldemar; “I will show 
nim such reasons as shall induce him to join us 
when we hold our meeting at York.—Sir Prior,” he 
said, “I must speak with you in private, before 
you mount your palfrey.” 

The other guests were now fast dispersing, with 
the exception of those immediately attached to 
Prince John’s faction, and his retinue. 

“This, then, is the result of your advice,” said the 
Prince, turning an angry countenance upon Fitz¬ 
urse; “that I should be bearded at my own board by 
a drunken Saxon churl, and that, on the mere sound 
of my brother’s name, men should fall off front me 
as if I had the leprosy?” 

“Have patience, sir,” replied his counselor; “I 
might retort your accusation, and blame the incon¬ 
siderable levity which foiled my design, and misled 
your own better judgment. But this is no time foi 
recrimination. De Bracy and I will instantly go 
among these shuffling cowards, and convince them 
fhey have gone too far to recede.” 

“It will be in vain,” said Prince John, pacing the 
apartment with disordered steps, and expressing 



Ivan hoe 


201 


himself with an agitation to which the wine he had 
drank partly contributed—“It will be in vain—they 
have seen the handwriting on the wall 1 —they have 
marked the paw of the lion in the sand—they have 
heard his approaching roar shake the wood—noth¬ 
ing will reanimate their courage.” 

“Would to God/’ said Fitzurse to De Bracy, “that 
aught could reanimate his own! His brother’s very 
name is an ague to him. Unhappy are the counsel¬ 
ors of a prince, who wants fortitude and persever¬ 
ance alike in good and in evil!” 


’Daniel V. 

Question : In what way does this chapter prepare for 
the second great place of action, the storming of the cas¬ 
tle? 




CHAPTER XV 


And yet lie thinks,—ha, ha, ha, ha,—he thinks 
I am the tool and servant of his will. 

Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble 
His plots and base oppression must create, 

I’ll shape myself a way to higher things. 

And who will say ’tis wrong? 

Basil, a Tragedy. 

No spider ever took more pain's to repair the shat¬ 
tered meshes of his web, than did Waldemar Fitz- 
urse to reunite and combine the scattered members 
of Prince John’s cabal. Few of these were attached 
to him from inclination, and none from personal re¬ 
gard. It was therefore necessary, that Fitzurse 
should open to them new prospects of advantage, 
and remind them of those which they at present en¬ 
joyed. To the young and wild nobles, he held out 
the prospect of unpunished license and uncontrolled 
revelry; to the ambitious, that of power, and to the 
covetous, that of increased wealth and extended do¬ 
mains. The leaders of the mercenaries received a 
donation in gold; an argument the most persuasive 
to their minds, and without which all others would 
have proved in vain. Promises were still more lib¬ 
erally distributed than money by this active agent; 
and, in fine, nothing was left undone that could 
determine the wavering, or animate the disheartened. 
The return of King Richard he spoke of as an event al¬ 
together beyond the reach of probability; yet, when 
he observed, from the doubtful looks and uncertain 
answers which he received, that this was the ap¬ 
prehension by which the minds of his accomplices 
were most haunted, he boldly treated that event, 
should it really take place, as one which ought not 
to alter their political calculations. 







IVANHOE 


203 


I 

“If Richard returns,” said Fitzurse, “he returns 
to enrich his needy and impoverished crusaders at 
the expense of those who did not follow him to the 
Holy Land. He returns to call to a fearful reckon¬ 
ing, those who, during his absence, have done aught 
that can be construed offense or encroachment upon 
i either the laws of the land or the privileges of the 
crown. He returns to avenge upon the Orders of 
the Temple and the Hospital, the preference which 
they showed to Philip of France during the wars in 
the Holy Land. He returns, in fine, to punish as a 
rebel every adherent of his brother Prince John. 
Are ye afraid of his power?” continued the artful 
confidant of that Prince; “we acknowledge him a 
strong and valiant knight; but these are not the 
days of King Arthur, when a champion could en¬ 
counter an army. If Richard indeed comes back, it 
must be alone,—unfollowed—unfriended. The bones 
of his gallant army have whitened the sands of Pal¬ 
estine. The few of his followers who have returned 
have straggled hither like this Wilfred of Ivanhoe, 
beggarded and broken men.—And what talk ye of 
Richard’s right of birth?” he proceeded, in answer 
to those who objected scruples on that head. “Is 
Richard’s title of primogeniture more decidedly cer¬ 
tain than that of Duke Robert 1 of Normandy, the 
Conqueror’s eldest son? And yet William the Red, 
and Henry, his second and third brothers, were suc¬ 
cessively preferred to him by the voice of the na¬ 
tion. Robert had every merit wTiich can be pleaded 


Although Robert was the oldest son of William the 
Conqueror, he could not gain the throne which he thought 
belonged to him from right of birth. Fitzurse used this 
example as encouragement to weak followers of John. 

Question : Name six reasons that Fitzurse gives for 
the nobles’ adhering to the cause of Prince John. 







204 


IVANHOE 


for Richard; he was a bold knight, a good leader, 
generous to his friends and to the church, ana, to 
crown the whole, a crusader and a conqueror of tho 
Holy Sepulcher; and yet he died a blind and miser¬ 
able prisoner in the Castle of Cardiff, because ht op¬ 
posed himself to the will of the people, who chose 
that he should not rule over them. It is our right,” 
he said, “to choose from the blood royal the prince 
who is best qualified to hold the supreme power— 
that is,” said he, correcting himself, “him whose 
election will best promote the interests of the no¬ 
bility. In personal qualifications,” he added, “it was 
possible that Prince John might be inferior to his 
brother Richard, but when it was considered that 
the latter returned with the sword of vengeance in 
his hand, while the former held out rewards, im¬ 
munities, privileges, wealth, and honors, it couia 
not be doubted which was the king whom in wisdom 
the nobility were called on to support.” 

These, and many more arguments, some adapted 
to the peculiar circumstances of those whom he ad¬ 
dressed, had the expected weight with the nobles 
of Prince John’s faction. Mpst of them consented 
to attend the proposed meeting at York, for the pur¬ 
pose of making general arrangements for placing 
the crown upon the head of Prince John. 

It was late at night, when, worn out and ex¬ 
hausted with his various exertions, however grati¬ 
fied with the result, Fitzurse, returning to the Cas¬ 
tle of Ashby, met with De Bracy, who had exchanged 
his banqueting garments for a short green kirtle, 
with hose of the same cloth and color, a leathern 
cap or headpiece, a short sword, a horn slung over 
his shoulder, a long-bow in his hand, and a bundle 
of arrows stuck in his belt. Had Fitzurse met this 
figure in an outer apartment, he would have passed 


IVANHOE 


205 


him without notice, as one of the yeomen of the 
guard; but finding him in the inner hall, he looked 
at him with more attention, and recognized the Nor¬ 
man knight in the dress of an English yeoman. 

“What mummery is this, De Bracy?” said Fitz- 
urse, somewhat angrily; “is this a time for Christ¬ 
mas gambols and quaint markings, when the fate of 
our master, Prince John, is on the very verge of 
decision? Why hast thou not been, like me, among 
these heartless cravens, whom the very name of 
King Richard terrifies, as it is said to do the chil¬ 
dren of the Saracens ?” 

“I have been attending to mine own business,” an¬ 
swered De Bracy calmly, “as you, Fitzurse, have 
been minding yours.” 

“I minding mine own business!” echoed Walde- 
mar; “I have been engaged in that of Prince John, 
our joint patron.” 

“As if thou hadst any other reason for that, 
Waldemar,” said De Bracy, “than the promotion of 
thine own individual interest? Come, Fitzurse, we 
know each other—ambition is thy pursuit, pleasure 
is mine, and they become our different ages. Of 
Prince John thou thinkest as I do; that he is too 
weak to be a determined monarch, too tyrannical to 
be an easy monarch, too insolent and presumptuous 
to be a popular monarch, and too fickle and timid 
to be long a monarch of any kind. But he is a mon¬ 
arch by whom Fitzurse and De Bracy hope to rise 
and thrive; and therefore you aid him with your 
policy, and I with the lances of my Free Compan¬ 
ions.” 

“A hopeful auxiliary,” said Fitzurse impatiently; 
“playing the fool in the very moment of utter neces¬ 
sity.—What on earth dost thou purpose by this ob- 
surd disguise at a moment so urgent?” 





206 


IVANHOE 


“To get me a wife,” answered De Bracy coolly, 
“after the manner of the tribe of Benjamin.” 

“The tribe of Benjamin?” said Fitzurse; “I com¬ 
prehend thee not.” 

“Wert thou not in presence yester-even,’’ said De 
Bracy, “when we heard the Prior Aymer tell us a 
tale' in reply to the romance which was sung by the 
Minstrel?—He told how, long since in Palestine, a 
deadly feud arose between the tribe of Benjamin 
and the rest of the Israelitish nation; and how they 
cut to pieces well-nigh all the chivalry of that tribe; 
and how they swore by our blessed Lady that they 
would not permit those who remained to marry in 
their lineage; and how they became grieved for 
their vow, and sent to consult his holiness the Pope 
how they might be absolved from it; and how, by 
the advice of the Holy Father, the youth of the tribe 
of Benjamin carried off from a superb tournament 
all the ladies who were there present, and thus won 
them wives without the consent either of their 
brides or their brides’ families.” 

“I have heard the story,” said Fitzurse, “though 
either the Prior or thou hast made some singular 
alterations in date and circumstances.” 

“I tell thee,” said De Bracy, “that I mean to pur¬ 
vey me a wife after the fashion of the tribe of Ben¬ 
jamin; which is as much as to say, that in this same 
equipment I will fall upon that herd of Saxon bul¬ 
locks, who have this night left the castle, and carry 
off from them the lovely Rowena.” 

“Art thou mad, De Bracy?” said Fitzurse. “Be¬ 
think thee that, though the men be Saxons, they are 
rich and powerful and regarded with the more re¬ 
spect by their countrymen, that wealth and honor 
are but the lot of few of Saxon descent.” 


1 Judges XXL 



IVANHOE 


207 


“And should belong to none,” said De Bracy; “the 
work of the Conquest should be completed.” 

“This is no time for it at ieast,” said Fitzurse; 
“the approaching crisis renders the favor of the 
multitude indispensable, and Prince John cannot re¬ 
fuse justice to any one who injures their favorites.” 

“Let him grant it, if he dare,” said De Bracy; 
“he will soon see the difference betwixt the support 
of such a lusty lot of spears as mine, and that of 
a heartless mob of Saxon churls. Yet I mean no 
immediate discovery of myself. Seem I not in this 
garb as bold a forester as ever blew horn? The 
blame of the violence shall rest with the outlaws 
of the Yorkshire forests. I have sure spies on the 
' Saxons’ motions—To-night they sleep in the convent 
of St. Wittol, or Withold, or whatever they call that 
l, churl of a Saxon saint at Burton-on-Trent. Next 
day’s march brings them within our reach, and, 
falcon-ways, we swoop on them at once. Presently 
after I‘will appear in mine own shape, play the 
i courteous knight, rescue the unfortunate and af¬ 
flicted fair one from the hands of the rude ravish- 
Ijers, conduct her to Front-de-Bceuf’s Castle, or to 
Normandy, if it 'should be necessary, and produce 
;her not again to her kindred until she be the bride 
i|and dame of Maurice de Bracy.” 

“A marvelous sage plan,” said Fitzurse, “and, as 
1 think, not entirely of thine own device.—Come, 
be frank, De Bracy, who aided thee in the inven¬ 
tion? and who is to assist in the execution? for, as 
I think, thine own band lies as far off as York.’’ 

“Marry, if thou must needs know,” said De Bracy, 
“it was the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert that 
shaped out the enterprise, which the adventure of 
the men of Benjamin suggested to me. He is to 
aid me in the onslaught, and he and his followers 







208 


Ivanhoe 


will personate the outlaws, from whom my valor- 
out arm is, after changing my garb, to rescue the 
lady.” 

“By my halidom,” said Fitzurse, “the plan was 
worthy of your united wisdom! and thy prudence. 
De Bracy, is most especially manifested in the proj¬ 
ect of leaving the lady in the hands of thy worthy 
confederate. Thou mayst, I think, succeed in taking 
her from her Saxon friends, but how thou wilt re¬ 
scue her afterwards from the clutches of Bois-Guil- 
bert seems considerably more doubtful—He is a fal¬ 
con well accustomed to pounce on a partridge, and to 
hold his prey fast.” 

“He is a Templar,” said De Bracy, “and cannot 
therefore rival me in my plan of wedding this heir¬ 
ess;—and to attempt aught dishonorable against the 
intended wife of De Bracy—By Heaven! were he a 
whole Chapter of hi l s Order in his single person, he 
dared not do me such an injury!” 

“Then since naught that I can say,” said Fitzurse, 
“will put this folly from thy imagination, (for well 
I know the obstinacy of thy disposition,) at least 
waste as little time as possible—let not thy folly be 
lasting as well as untimely.” 

“I tell thee,” answered De Bracy, “that it will be 
the work of a few hours, and I shall be at York at 
the head of my daring and valorous fellows, as 
ready to support any bold design as thy policy can 
b~e to form one.—But I hear my comrades assem¬ 
bling, and the steeds stamping and neighing in the 
outer court.—Farewell.—I go, like a true knight, to 
win the smiles of beauty.” 

“Like a true knight?” repeated Fitzurse, looking 
after him; “like a fool, I should say, or like a child, 

Questions What is the weakness in De Bracy ’s plan 
for seizing Rowena? 



IVANHOE 


209 


vho will leave the most serious and needful occupa¬ 
tion, to chase the down of the thistle that drives 
3ast him.—But it is with such tools that I must 
vork;—and for whose advantage?—For that of a 
Prince as unwise as he is profligate, and as likely to 
)e an ungrateful master as he has already proved 
i rebellious son and an unnatural brother.—But he 
'—he, too, is but one of the tools with which I labor; 
and, proud as he is, should he presume to separate 
his interests from mine, this is a secret which he 
shall soon learn/’ 

The meditations of the statesman were here in¬ 
terrupted by the voice of the Prince from an interi¬ 
or apartment, calling out, “Noble Waldemar Fitz- 
urse!” and, with bonnet doffed, the future Chan- 
celor (for to such high preferment did the wily Nor- 
!man aspire) hastened to receive the orders of the 
future sovereign. 





CHAPTER XVI 


Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 

From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; 

The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 

His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well; 

Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, 

Prayer all his business—all his pleasure praise. 

Parnell, j 

The reader cannot have forgotten that the event 
of the tournament was decided by the exertions of 
an unknown knight, whom, on account of the pas¬ 
sive and indifferent conduct which he had mani¬ 
fested on the former part of the day, the spectators 
had entitled, Le Noir Faineant. This knight had left 
the field abruptly when the victory was achieved;' 
and when he was called upon to receive the reward 
of his valor, he was nowhere to be found. In the 
meantime, while summoned by heralds and by trum¬ 
pets, the knight was holding his course northward, 
avoiding all frequented paths, and taking the shortest 
road through the woodlands. He paused for the 
night at a small hostelry lying out of the ordinary 
route, where, however, he obtained from a wander¬ 
ing minstrel news of the event of the tourney. 

On the next morning the knight departed early, 
with the intention of making a long journey; the 
condition of his horse, which he had carefully 
spared during the preceding morning, being such as 
enabled him to travel far without the necessity of 
much repose. Yet his purpose was baffled by the 
devious paths through which he rode, so that when 
evening closed upon him, he only found himself on 
the fr ontiers of the West Riding of Yorkshire. By 

Question : Is this chapter in any way connected with 
the preceding chapters? 



IVANHOE 


211 


this time both horse and man required refreshment, 
and it became necessary, moreover, to look out for 
some place in which they might spend the night, 
which was now fast approaching. 

The place where the traveler found himself 
seemed unpropitious for obtaining either shelter or 
refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced to the 
usual expedient of knights-errant, who on such oc¬ 
casions, turned their horses to graze and laid them¬ 
selves down to meditate on their lady-mistress, with 
an oak-tree for a canopy. But the Black Knight either 
had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being as indiffer¬ 
ent in love as he seemed to be in war, was not suf¬ 
ficiently occupied by passionate reflections upon her 
beauty and cruelty, to be able to parry the effects 
of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act as a 
substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and sup¬ 
per. He felt dissatisfied, therefore, when, looking 
around, he found himself deeply involved in woods, 
through which indeed there were many open glades, 
and some paths, but such as seemed only formed by 
the numerous herds of cattle which grazed in the 
forest, or by the animals of chase, and the hunters 
who made prey of them. 

The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed 
his course, had now sunk behind the Derbyshire 
hills on his left, and every effort which he might 
make to pursue his journey was as likely to lead him 
out of his road as to advance him on his route. Aft¬ 
er having in vain endeavored to select the most 
beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage 
of some herdsman, or the silvan lodge of a forester, 
and having repeatedly found himself totally unable 
to determine on a choice, the knight resolved to 
trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience hav¬ 
ing, on former occasions, made him acquainted with 


212 


Ivan hoe 


the wonderful talent possessed by these animals for 
extricating themselves and their riders on such 
emergencies. 

The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long 
a day’s journey under a rider cased in mail, had no 
sooner found, by the slackened reins, that he was 
abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to 
assume new strength and spirit; and whereas for¬ 
merly he had scarce replied to the spur, otherwise 
than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confi¬ 
dence reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and as¬ 
sumed, of his own accord, a more lively motion. The 
path which the animal adopted rather turned off 
from the course pursued by the knight during the 
day; but as the horse seemed confident in his choice, 
the rider abandoned himself to his discretion. 

He was justified by the event; for the footpath 
soon after appeared a little wider and more worn, 
and Hie tinkle of a small bell gave the knight to un¬ 
derstand that he was in the vicinity of some chapel 
or hermitage. 

Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of turf, 
on the opposite side of which, a rock, rising abruptly 
from a gently sloping plain, offered its gray and 
weather-beaten front to the traveler. Ivy mantled 
its sides in some places, and in others oa*ks and 
holly bushes, whose roots found nourishment in the 
cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices below, 
like the plumage of the warrior over his steel hel¬ 
met, giving grace to that whose chief expression 
was terror. At the bottom of the rock, and leaning, 
as it were against it, was constructed a rude hut, 
built chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the 
neighboring forest, and secured against the weather 
by having its crevices stuffed with moss mingled 
with clay. The stem of a young fir-tree lopped of 


Ivan hoe 


213 


its branches, with a piece of wood tied across near 
the top, was planted upright by the door, as a rude 
emblem of the holy cross. At a little distance on 
the right hand, a fountain of the purest water 
trickled out of the rock, and was received in a hol¬ 
low stone, which labor had formed into a rustic ba¬ 
sin. Escaping from thence, the stream murmured 
down the descent by a channel which its course had 
long worn, and so wandered through the little plain 
to lose itself in the neighboring wood. 

Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very 
small chapel, of which the roof had partly fallen in. 
The building, when entire, had never been above 
sixteen feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the 
roof, low in proportion, rested upon four concen¬ 
tric arches which sprung from the four corners of 
the building, each supported upon a short and heavy 
pillar. The ribs of two of these arches remained, 
though the roof had fallen down betwixt them; over 
the others it remained entire. The entrance to this 
ancient place of devotion was under a very low round 
arch, ornamented by several courses of that zigzag 
molding, resembling shark’s teeth, which appears so 
often in the more ancient Saxon architecture. A bel¬ 
fry rose above the porch on four small pillars, within 
which hung the green and weather-beaten bell, the 
feeble sounds of which had been some time before 
heard by the Black Knight. 

The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmer¬ 
ing in twilight before the eyes of the traveler, giv¬ 
ing him good assurance of lodging for the night; 
since it was a special duty of those hermits who 
dwelt in the woods, to exercise hospitality towards 
benighted and bewildered passengers. 

Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider 
minutely the particulars which we have detailed, 



214 


IVANHOE 


but thanking St. Julian (the patron of travelers) 
who had sent him good harborage, he leaped from 
hts horse and assailed the door of the hermitage 
with the butt of his lance, in order to arouse atten¬ 
tion and gain admittance. 

It was some time before he obtained any answer, 
and the reply, when made, was unpropitious. 

“Pass on, whosoever thou art,” was the answer 
given by a deep, hoarse voice from within the hut, 
“and disturb not the servant of God and St. Dunstan 
in his evening devotions.” 

“Worthy father,” answered the knight, “here is 
a poor wanderer bewildered in these woods, who 
gives thee the opportunity of exercising thy charity 
and hospitality.” 

“Good brother,” replied the inhabitant of the 
hermitage, “it has pleased Our Lady and St. Dun¬ 
stan to destine me for the object of those virtues, in¬ 
stead of the exercise thereof. I have no provisions 
here which even a dog would share with me, and a 
horse of any tenderness of nurture would despise 
my couch—pass therefore on thy way, and God 
speed thee.” 

“But how,” replied the knight, “is it possible for 
me to find my way through such a wood as this, when 
darkness is coming on? I pray you, reverend father, 
as you are a Christian, to undo your door, and at 
least point out to me my road.” 

“And I pray you, good Christian brother,” re¬ 
plied the anchorite, “to disturb me no more. You 
have already interrupted me, pater, two aves and a 
credo, which I, miserable sinner that I am, should, 
according to my vow, have said before moonrise.” 

“The road—the road!” vociferated the knight, 
“give me directions for the road, if I am to expect 
no more from thee.” 




IVANHOE 


215 


“The road,” replied the hermit, “is easy to hit. 
The path from the wood leads to a morass, and 
.rom thence to a ford, which, as the rains have 
ibated, may now be passable. Wlien thou nast 
crossed the ford, thou wilt take care of thy footing 
ip the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous; and 
the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as 
. learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel), 
*iven way in sundry places. Thou wilt then Keep 
straight forward-” 

“A broken path—a precipice—a ford, and a 
morass!” said the knight, interrupting him,—“Sir 
Permit, if you were the holiest that ever wore beard 
>r told beads, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold 
;his road to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who lives! 
oy the charity of the country—ill-deserved, as I 
loubt it is—hast no right to refuse shelter to the 
wayfarer when in distress. Either open the door 
quickly, or, by the rood, I will beat it down ana 
make entry for myself.” 

“Friend wayfarer,” replied the hermit, “be not 
importunate; if thou puttest me to use the carnal 
weapon in mine own defense, it will be e’en the 
worse for you.” 

At this moment a distant noise of barking arid 
growling, which the traveler had for some time 
heard, became extremely loud and furious, and 
made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed 
by his threat of making forcible entry, had called 
the dog-; who made this clamor to aid him in his de¬ 
fense, out of some inner recess in which they had 
been kenneled. Incensed at this preparation on the 
hermit’s part for making good his inhospitable pur¬ 
pose, the knight struck the door so furiously with 


’Telling off beads on the rosary as prayers are said. 





216 


1VANH0E 


his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with 
violence. 

The anchorite, not caring again to expose his 
door to a similar shock, now called out aloud, “Pa¬ 
tience, patience—spare thy strength, good traveler, 
and I will presently undo the door, though, it may 
be, my doing so will be little to thy pleasure/' 

The door accordingly was opened, and the hermit, 
a large, strong-built man, in his sackcloth gown and 
hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood before the 
knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or 
link, and in the other a baton of crab-tree, so thick 
and heavy, that it might well be termed a club. Two 
large, shaggy dogs, half greyhound, half mastiff,v 
stood ready to rush upon the traveler as soon as the 
door should be opened. But when the torch glanced 
upon the lofty crest and golden spurs of the knight, 
who stood without, the hermit, altering probably his 
original intentions, repressed the rage of his aux¬ 
iliaries, and, changing his tone to a sort of churlish 
courtesy, invited the knight to enter his hut, making 
excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge after 
sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and out¬ 
laws who were abroad, and who gave no honor to 
Our Lady of St. Dunstan, nor to those holy men 
who spent life in their service. 

“The poverty of your cell, good father,” said the 
knight, looking around him, and seeing nothing but 
a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved in oak, a 
missal; with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and 
one or two clumsy articles of furniture—“the pov¬ 
erty of your cell should seem a sufficient defense 
against any risk of thieves, not to mention the aid 
°f two trusty dogs , 1 large and strong enough, I think. 

J It was against the law to keep such dogs as these with¬ 
out the permission of the keeper of the forest. 



Ivan hoe 


217 


j to pull down a stag, and of course, to match with 

I most men.” 

“The good keeper of the forest,” said the hermit, 
“hath allowed me the use of these animals, to pro¬ 
tect my solitude until the times shall mend.” 

Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted 
branch of iron which served for a candlestick; and, 
j placing the oaken trivet before the embers of the 
fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he 
placed a stool upon one side of the table, and beck¬ 
oned to the knight to do the same upon the other. 

They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at 
each other, each thinking in his heart that he had 
j; seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure than 
was placed opposite to him. 

“Reverend hermit,” said the knight, after looking 
I long and fixedly at his host, “were it not to interrupt 
your devout meditations, I would pray to know three 
things of your holiness; first, where I am to put my 
horse?—secondly, what I can have for supper? 
thirdly, where I am to take up my couch for the 

night?” , . 

“I will reply to ydh,” said the hermit, “with my 
finger, it being against my rule to speak by words 
where signs can answer the purpose.” So saying, he 
pointed successively to two corners of $he hut. 
“Your stable,” said he, “is there—your bed there; 
and,” reaching down a platter with two handfuls of 
parched pease upon it from the neighboring shelf, 
and placing it upon the table, he added, your sup¬ 
per is here.” 

The knight shrugged his shoulders, and leaving 
the hut, brought in his horse, (which in the interim 
he had fastened to a tree.) unsaddled him with much 
attention, and spread upon the steed's weary back 
his own mantle. 





218 


IVANHOE 


The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to 
compassion by the anxiety as well as address which 
the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for, 
muttering something about provender left for the 
.keeper’s palfrey, he dragged out of a recess a bundle 
of forage, which he spread before the knight’s 
charger, and immediately afterwards shook down a 
quantity of dried fern in the corner which he had 
assigned for the rider’s couch. The knight returned 
him thanks for his courtesy; and, this duty none, 
both resumed their seats by the table, whereon stood 
the trencher of pease placed between them. The 
hermit, after a long grace, which had once been 
Latin, but of which original language few traces re¬ 
mained, excepting here and there the long rolling 
termination of some word or phrase, set example 
to his guest, by modestly putting into a very large 
mouth, furnished with teeth which might have ranked 
with those of a boar both in sharpness, and white¬ 
ness, some three or four dried pease, a miserable 
grist as it seemed for so large and able a mill. 

The knight, in order to follow so laudable an ex¬ 
ample, laid aside his helmet, his corselet, and the 
greater part of his armor, and showed to the hermit 
a head thick-curled with yellow hair, high features, 
blue eyes, remarkably bright and sparkling, a mouth 
well formed, having an upper lip clothed with mus¬ 
taches darker than his hair, and bearing altogether 
the look of a bold, daring, and enterprising man, 
with which his strong form well corresponded. 

The hermit, as if wishing to answer to the confi¬ 
dence of his guest, threw back his cowl, and showed 
a round bullet head belonging to a man in the prime 
of life. His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a 
circle of stiff curled black hair, had something the 
appearance of a parish pinfold begirt by its high 


IVANHOE 


219 


hedge. The features expressed nothing of monastic 
austerity, or of ascetic privations; on the contrary, 
it was a bold bluff countenance, with broad black 
eyebrows, a well-turned forehead, and cheeks as 
round and vermiiion as those of a trumpeter, from 
which descended a long and curly black beard. Such 
a visage, joined to the brawny form of the holy man, 
spoke rather of sirloins and haunches, than of pease 
and pulse. This incongruity did not escape the 
guest. After he had with great difficulty accom¬ 
plished the mastication of a mouthful of the dried 
pease, he found it absolutely necessary to request his 
pious entertainer to furnish him with some liquor; 
who replied to his request by placing before him a 
large can of'the purest water from the fountain.^ 

“It is from the well of St. Dunstan, ’ said he, in 
which, betwixt sun and sun, he baptized five hundred 
heathen Danes and Britons—blessed be his name!” 
And applying his black beard to the pitcher, he took 
a draught much more moderate in quantity than his 
encomium seemed to warrant. 

<f It seems to me, reverend father,” said the knight, 
“that the small morsels which you eat, together with 
this holy, but somewhat thin beverage, have thriven 
with you marvelously. You appear a man more fit 
to win the ram at a w restling match, or the ring at 
a bout at quarter-staff, or the bucklers at a sword¬ 
play, than to linger out your time in this desolate 
wilderness, saying masses, and living upon parched 
pease and cold water.” 

“Sir knight,” answered the hermit, “your thoughts, 
like those of the ignorant laity, are according to 
the flesh. It has pleased Our Lady and my patron 
saint to bless the pittance to which t restrain my- 

Question: What leads the knight to believe that the 
hermit is in disguise? 





220 


IVANHOE 


self, even as the pulse and water was blessed to thel 
children Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, whc* 
drank the same rather than defile themselves with 
wine and meats which were appointed them by fhe^ 
ing of the Saracens.” 1 2 j 

“Hloly father,” said the knight, “upon whose,] 
countenance it hath pleased Heaven to work such r 
a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy 
name?” : 

<r Thou mayest call me,” answered the hermit, “the 
Clerk" of Copmanhurst, for so I am termed in these 
parts—they add, it is true, the epithet holy, but 1 
stand not upon that, as being unworthy of such addi¬ 
tion.—And now, valiant knight, may I pray ye for 
the name of my honorable guest?” 

“Truly,” said the knight, “Holy Clerk of Cop¬ 
manhurst, men call me in these parts the Black 
Knight,—many, sir, add to it the epithet of Slug¬ 
gard, whereby I am no way ambitious to be distin¬ 
guished.” 

The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling 
at his guest’s reply. 

“I see,” said he, “Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou 
art a man of prudence and of counsel; and moreover, 
I see that my poor monastic fare likes thee not, ac¬ 
customed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license 
of courts and of camps, and the luxuries of cities; 
and now I bethink me, Sir Sluggard, that when the 
charitable keeper of this forest-walk left these dogs 
for my protection, and also those bundles of forage, 
he left me also some food, which, being unfit for my 

1 Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, was referred to as a 
Saracen after tbe custom of that day of calling everyone 
foreign to the faith a Saracen. Scott slyly makes fun 

here. 

2 Clergy, or educated man. 




IVANHOE 


221 


ise. the very recollection of it had escaped me amid 
ny more weighty meditations.’" 

“I dare be sworn he did so,” said the knight; “I 
vas convinced that there was better food in the cell, 
loly Clerk, since you first doffed your cowl.—Your 
zeeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld 
hy grinders contending with these pease, and thy 
hroat flooded with this uncongenial element, could 
!;ee thee doomed to such horse-provender and horse- 
beverage,” (pointing to the provisions upon the 
able), “and refrain from mending thy cheer. Let 
is see the keeper’s bounty, therefore, without delay.” 

The hermit cast a wistful look upon'the knight, in 
vhich there was a sort of comic expression of hesi- 
:ation, as if uncertain how far he should act pru- 
lenfly intrusting his guest. There was, however, as 
nuch of bold frankness in the knight’s countenance as 
vas possible to be expressed by features. His smile. 
:oo, had something in it irresistibly comic, and gave 
an assurance of faith and loyalty, with which his 
host could not refrain from sympathizing. 

After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit 
went to the further side of the hut, and opened a 
hutch, which was concealed with great care and 
some ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, 
into which this aperture gave admittance, he brought 
a large pasty, baked in a pewter platter of unusual 
dimensions. This mighty dish he placed before his 
iguest, who, using his poniard to cut it open, lost no 
time in making himself acquainted with its contents. 

“How long is it since the good keeper has been 
[here?” said the knight to his host, after. having 
swallowed several hasty morsels of this reinforce¬ 
ment to the hermit’s good cheer. 

“About two months,” answered the father, hastily. 

“By the true Lord,” answered the knight, “every- 



222 


IVANHOE 


thing in your hermitage is miraculous, Holy Clerk! 
for I would have been sworn that the fat buck which 
furnished the venison had been running on foot 
within the week/’ 

The hermit was somewhat discountenanced by this 
observation; and, moreover, he made but a poor 
figure while gazing on the diminution of the pasty^ 
on which his guest was making desperate inroads; a 
warfare in which his previous profession of absti¬ 
nence left him no pretext for joining. 

“'I have been in Palestine, Sir Clerk,” said the 
knight, stopping short of a sudden, “and I bethink 
me it is a custom there that every host who entertains 
a guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his 
food, by partaking of it along with him. Far be it 
from me to suspect so holy a man of aught inhospi¬ 
table ; nevertheless I will be highly bound to you 
would you comply with this Eastern custom.” 

“To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight, 
I will for once depart from my rule,” replied the 
hermit. And as there were no forks in those days, 
his clutches were instantly in the bow T els of the pasty. 

The ice of ceremony being once broken, it seemed 
matter of rivalry between the guest and the enter¬ 
tainer which should display the best appetite; and 
although the former had probably fasted longest, yet 
the hermit fairly surpassed him. 

“Holy Clerk,” said the knight, when his hunger 
was appeased, “I would gage my good horse yonder 
against a zecchin, that that same honest keeper to 
whom we are obliged for the venison has left thee a 
stoup of wine, or a runlet of canary, or some such 
trifle, by way of ally to this noble pasty. This would 
be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy to 
dwell in the memory of so rigid an anchorite; yet, 
I think, were you to search yonder crypt once more, 


IVANHOE 


223 


you would find that I am right in my conjecture.” 

The hermit only replied by a grin; and returning 
to the hutch, he produced a leathern bottle, which 
might contain about four quarts. He also brought 
forth two large drinking cups, made out ot the 
horn of the urus, and hooped with silver. Having 
made this goodly provision for washing down the 
supper, he seemed to think no farther ceremonious 
scruple necessary on his part; but filling both cups, 
and saying, in the Saxon fashion, “Waes hael, Sir 
Sluggish Knight!” he emptied his own at a draught. 

“Drink hael, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!” an¬ 
swered the warrior, and did his host reason in a 
similar brimmer. 

“Holy Clerk,” said the stranger, after the first 
cup was swallowed, “I cannot but marvel that a man 
possessed of such thews and sinews as thirfe, and 
who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a 
trencher-man, should think of abiding by himself in 
this wilderness. In my judgment, you are fitter to 
keep a castle or a fort, eating of the fat and drink¬ 
ing of the strong, than to live here upon pulse and 
water, or even upon the charity of the keeper. At 
least were I as thou, I should find myself both dis¬ 
port and plenty out of the king’s deer. There is 
many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will 
never be missed that goes to the use of St. Dunstan’s 
chaplain.” 

“Sir Sluggish Knight,” replied the Clerk, “these 
are dangerous words, and I pray you to forbear 
them. I am true hermit to the king and law, and 
were I to spoil my liege’s game. I should be sure of 
the prison, and an my gown saved me not, were in 
some peril of hanging.” 

“Nevertheless, were I as thou,” said the knight, 
“I would take my walk by moonlight, when foresters 




224 


IVANHOE 


and keepers were warm in bed, and ever and anon, 
—as I pattered my prayers,—-1 would let fly a shaft 
among the herds of dun deer that feed in the glades 
—Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast thou never practiced 
such a pastime?” 

friend Sluggard,” answered the hermit, ‘‘thou 
hast seen all that can concern thee of my housekeep¬ 
ing, and something more than he deserves who takes 
up his quarters by violence. Credit me, it is better 
to enjoy the good which God sends thee, than to be 
impertinently curious how it comes. Fill thy cup, 
and welcome; and do not, I pray thee, by further 
impertinent inquiries, put me to show that thou 
could'sf hardly have made good thy lodging had I 
been earnest to oppose thee.” 

“By, my faith,” said the knight, “thou makest me 
more curious than ever! Thou art the most mysteri¬ 
ous hermit I ever met; and I will know more of th^e 
ere we part. As for thy threats, know, holy man, 
thou speakest to one whose trade it is to find out 
danger wherever it is to be met with.” 

“Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee,” said the 
hermit; “respecting thy valor much, but deeming 
wondrous slightly of thy discretion. If thou wilt 
take equal arms with me, I will give thee, in all 
friendship and brotherly love, such sufficing penance 
and complete absolution, that thou shalt not for the 
next twelve months sin the sin of excess of curios¬ 
ity.” 

The knight pledged him, and desired him to name 
his weapons. 

“There is none,” replied the hermit, “from the 
scissors of Delilah, 1 and the tenpenny nail of Jael, 2 

^ife of Sampson. Judges XVI. 

2 Wife of Heleer. She slew Siserd by driving a nail jnto 
his temples, Judges IV, 18-21. 







IVANHOE 


225 


to the scimeter of Goliath, 1 at which I am not a 
match for thee—But, if I am to make the election, 
what sayst thou, good friend, to these trinkets?” 

Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took 
out from it a couple of broadswords and bucklers, 
such as were used by the yeomanry of the period. 
The knight, who watched his motions, observed that 
this second place of concealment was furnished with 
two or three good long-bows, a crossbow, a bundle 
of bolts for the latter, and baif-a-dozen sheaves of 
arrows for the former. A harp, and other matters 
of a very uncanonical appearance, were also visible 
when this dark recess was opened. 

“I promise thee, brother Clerk,” said he, “I will 
ask thee no more offensive questions. The contents 
of that cupboard are an answer to all my inquiries; 
and I see a weapon there” (here he stooped and took 
out the harp) “on which I would more gladly prove 
my skill with thee, than at the sword and buckler.” 

“I hope, Sir Knight,” said the hermit, “thou hast 
given no good reason for thy surname of the Sluggard. 
I do promise thee I suspect thee grievously. Never¬ 
theless, thou art my guest, and I wiil not put thy 
manhood to the proof without thine own free will. 
Sit thee down, then, and fill thy cup; let us drink, sing, 
and be merry. If thou knowesf ever a good lay. 
thou shalt be welcome to a nook of pasty at Cop- 
manhurst so long as I serve the chapel of St. Dun- 
stan, which, please God, shall be till I change my 
grey covering for one of green turf. But come, fill 
a flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the 
harp; and naught pitches the voice and sharpens the 
ear like a cup of wine. For my part, I love to feel 
the grape at my very finger-ends before they make 
the harp-strings tinkle.” 


8 Philistine giant killed by David I. Samuel XVII, 






CHAPTER XVII 


At eve, within yon studious nook, 

I ope my brass-embossed book, 

Portray’d with many a holy deed 
Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed ; 
Then, as my taper waxes dim, 

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn. 


Who but would cast his pomp away, 
To take my staff and amice gray. 
And to the world’s tumultuous stage 
Prefer the peaceful HermitageF 


Wakton. 


Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial 
hermit,' with which his guest/ willingly complied, he 
found it no easy matter to bring the harp to harm¬ 
ony. 

“Methinks, holy father/’ said he, “the instru¬ 
ment wants one string, and the rest have been some¬ 
what misused.” 


“Ay, mark’st thou that?” replied the hermit; “that 
shows thee a master of the craft. Wine and was¬ 


sail/” he added, gravely casting up his eyes--“all 
the (fault of wine and wassail! I told Allan-a- 
Dale/ the northern minstrel, that he would damage 
the harp if he touched it after the seventh cup, but 
he would not be controlled—Friend, I drink to thy 
successful performance.” 

So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, 
at the same time shaking his head at the intemper¬ 
ance of the Scottish harper. 

’“All readers, however slightly acquainted with the black 
letter, must recognize, in Clerk of Copmanhurst, Friar 
Tuck, the buxom Confessor of Robin Hood’s gang, the Cur- 
tal Friar of Fountain’s Abbey”—'Scott. 

2 The minstrel of Robin Hood’s out-law band. 







IVANHOE 


227 


The knight, in the meantime, had brought the 
strings into some order, and after a short prelude, 
isked his host whether he would choose a sivente in 
the language of oc, or a lai in the language of out, 
ir a virelui, or a ballad in the vulgar English, 
j “A ballad, a ballad,” said the hermit, “against 
all the ocs and ouis of France. Downright English 
am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was my 
patron St. Dunstan, and scorned oc and oui, as he 
would have scorned the parings of the devil’s hoof— 
downright English alone shall be sung in this cell.” 

“I will assay, then,” said the knight, “a ballad 
composed by a Saxon glee-man, whom I knew In 
Holy Land.” 

It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a 
complete master of the minstrel art, his taste for it 
had at least been cultivated under the best instruc¬ 
tors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a 
voice which had little compass, and was naturally 
rough rather than mellow, and, in short, had done 
all tnat culture can do in supplying natural deficien¬ 
cies. R,is performance, therefore, might have been 
termed very respectable by abler judges than the 
hermit, especially as the knight threw into the notes 
now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive en¬ 
thusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses 
which he sung. 

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN 
1 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame. 

From Palestine the champion came; 

The cross upon his shoulders borne. 

Rattle and blast had dimm’d and torn. 

Each dint upon his batter’d shie'd 

Was token of a foughten field; 

And thus, beneath his lady’s bower. 

He sung, as fell the twilight hour; — 





228 


Ivan hoe 


2 

“Joy to the fair!—thy knight behold, 

Return’d from yonder land of gold; 

No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need, 

Save his good arms, and battle-steed; 

His spurs, to dash against a foe, 

His lance and sword to lay him low; 

Such all the trophies of his toil, 

Such—and the hope of Tekla’s smile! 

3 

“Joy to the fair! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of might; 

Unnoted shall she not remain, 

Where meet the bright and noble train; 

Minstrel shall sing and herald tell— 

‘Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 

’Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field at Askalon! 

4 

“ ‘Note well her smile!—it edged the blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made, 

When, vain his strength and Mahound’s spell, 
Iconium’s turban’d Soldan 1 fell. 

Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades her neck of snow? 

Twines not of them one golden thread, 

But for its sake a Paynim bled.’ 

5 

“Joy to the fair!—my name unknown, 

Each deed, and all its praise thine own; 

Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate, 

The night dew falls, the hour is late. 

Inured to Syria’s glowing breath, 

I feel the north breeze chill as death; 

Let grateful love quell maiden shame, 

And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.” 

During this performance, the hermit demeaned 
himself much like a first-rate critic of the present 


IVANHOE 


229 


day at a new opera. He reclined back upon his 
seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his hands 
and twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in at¬ 
tention, and anon, balancing his expanded palms, he 
gently nourished them in time to the music. At one 
or two favorite cadences, he threw in a little assist¬ 
ance of his own, where the knight’s voice seemed un- 
I able 10 carry the air so high as his worshipful taste 
approved. When the song was ended, the anchorite 
emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung. 

“And yet,” said he, “I think my Saxon country¬ 
men had herded long enough with the Normans, to 
fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties. What 
took the honest knight from home? or what could 
he expect but to find his mistress agreeably engaged 
with a rival on his return, and his serenade, as they 
call it, as little regarded as the cater-wauhng of a 
cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink 
this cup to thee, to the success of all true lovers—I 
rear you are none,” he added on ooservmg that the 
knight (whose brain began to be heated with these 
repeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the 
water pitcher. 

“Why,” said the knight, “did you not tell me that 
this water was from the well of your blessed patron, 
St. Dunstan?” 

“Ay, truly,” said the hermit, “and, many a hun¬ 
dred of pagans did he baptize there, but I never 
heard that he drank any of it. Everything should 
be put to its proper use in this world. St. Dun.:tan 
knew, as well as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial 
friar.” 

And so saying, he reached the harp, and enter¬ 
tained his guest with the following characteristic 





230 


Ivan hoe 


song, to a sort of derry-down chorus,' appropriate to 
an old English ditty. 

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR 

1 

I’ll give thee, good fellow, a twelve month or twain, 

To search Europe, through, from Byzantium to Spain; 

But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire, 1 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

2 

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career, 

And is brought home at even-song prick’d through with a 
spear. 

I confess him in haste—for his lady desires 
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar’s. 

3 

Your monarch?—Pshaw! many a Prince has been known 
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown, 

But which of us e’er felt the idle desire 
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of a Friar! 

4 

The Friar has walked out, and where’er he has gone,' 1 
The land and its fatness is mark’d for his own; 

He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires, 
For every man’s house is the Barefooted Friar's. 

5 

He’s expected at noon, and no wight till he comes 
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums; 
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire, 

Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar. 


'“It may be proper to remind the reader, that the chorus 
of “derry-down” is supposed to be as ancient, not only as 
the times of the Heptarchy, but as those of the Druids, and 
to have furnished the chorus to the hymns of those vener¬ 
able persons when they went to the wood to gather mis- 
tleto^’—Scott 




IVANHOE 231 


6 

He’s expected at night, and the pasty’s made hot, 

They broach the brown ale, and they till the black pot. 

And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire, 
Ere he lack’d a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar. 

7 

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope, 

The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope ; 

For to gather life’s roses, unscathed by the briar, 

Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 

“By my troth/’ said the knight, “thou hast sung 
well and lustily, and in high praise of thine order. 
And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk, are you not 
ji afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of 
I your uncanonical pastimes?” 

!j “I uncanonical!” answered the hermit; I scorn 
1 the charge—I scorn it with my heels!—I serve the 
duty of my chapel duly and truly—Two masses 
daily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and ves¬ 
pers, aves, credos, paters—” 
i “Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison 
is in season,” said his guest. 

“Exceytis exceytendis , m replied the hermit, as 
our old abbot taught me to say. when impertinent 
laymen should ask me if I kept ever a punctilio of 
mine order.” 

“True, holy father,” said the knight; ‘but the 
devil is apt to keep an eye on such exceptions; he 
goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring lion.” 

“Let him roar here if he dares,” said the friar; 
“a touch of my cord will make him roar as loud as 
the tongs of Saint Dunstan himself did. I never 
feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his 
imps. Saint Dunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Wmi- 


^xcepting what is to be excepted. 






232 


1VANH0E 


bald, Saint Winifred, 1 Saint Swibert, Saint Willick, 
not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own 
poor merits to speed, I defy every devil of them, 
come cut and long tail.—But to let you into a secret, 
I never speak upon such subjects, my friends, until 
after morning vespers.” 

He changed the conversation; fast and furious 
grew the mirth of the parties, and many a song was 
exchanged betwixt them, when their revels were in¬ 
terrupted by a loud knocking at the door of the 
hermitage. 

The occasion of this interruption we can only ex¬ 
plain by resuming the adventures of another set of 
our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we do not pique 
ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep com¬ 
pany with any one personage of our drama. 


*The hermit refers to English and Welsh saints because 

be probably knew no others. 




CHAPTER XVIII 


Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle, 
Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother, 
Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs, 
Checquers the sunbeam in the greensward alley — 
Up and away! — for lovely paths are these 
To tread, when the glad sun is on his throne; 

Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia’s lamp 
With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest. 

Ettrich Forest. 

When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down 
senseless in the lists at Ashby, his first impulse was 
to order him into the custody and care of his own 
j attendants, but the words choked in his throat. He 
could not bring himself to acknwoledge, in presence 
of such an assembly, the son whom he had renounced 
and disinherited. He ordered, however, Oswald 
to keep an eye upon him; and directed that officer, 
with two of his serfs, to convey Ivanhoe to Ashby as 
soon as the crowd had dispersed. 

Otewald, however, was anticipated in this good 
! office. The crowd dispersed, indeed, but the knight 
was nowhere to be seen. 

It was in vain that Cedric’s cup-bearer looked 
|| around for his young master. He saw the bloody 
| spot on which he had lately sunk down, but himself 
he saw no longer; it seemed as if the fairies had 
; conveyed him from the spot. Perhaps Oswald (for 
I the Saxons were very superstitious) might have 
j adopted some such hypothesis, to account for Ivap- 
hoe’s disappearance, had he not suddenly cast his 
eye upon a person attired like a squire, in whom he 
recognized the features of his fellow-servant Gurth. 
Anxious concerning his master’s fate, and in despair 
at his sudden disappearance, the translated swine- 



234 


IVANHOE 


herd was searching for him everywhere, and had 
neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which his 
own safety depended. Oswald deemed it his duty to 
secure Gurth, as a fugitive of whose fate his master 
was to judge. 

rceiicwmg nis inquiries concerning the fate of 
Ivanhoe, the only information which the cup-bearer 
could collect from the bystanders was, that the 
knight had been raised with care by certain well- 
attired grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to 
a lady among the spectators, which had immediate¬ 
ly transported him out of the press. Oswald, on re¬ 
ceiving this intelligence, resolved to return to his 
master for farther instructions, carrying along with 
him Gurth, whom he considered in some sort as a 
deserter from the service of Cedric. 

The Saxon had been under very intense and agon¬ 
izing apprehensions concerning his son; for Nature 
had asserted her rights, in spite of the patriotic 
stoicism which labored to disown her. But no sooner 
was he informed that Ivanhoe was in careful, and 
probably in friendly hands, than the paternal anxi¬ 
ety which had been excited by the dubiety of his 
fate, gave way anew to the feeling of injured pride 
and resentment, at what he termed Wilfred’s filial 
disobedience. “Let him wander his way,” said he, 
—‘‘let those leech his wounds for whose sake he en¬ 
countered them. He is fitter to do the juggling 
tricks of the Norman chivalry than to maintain the 
fame and honor of his English ancestry with the 
glaive and brown-bill, the good old weapons of his 
country.” 

“If to maintain the honor of ancestry,” said Row- 
ena, who was present, “it is sufficient to be wise in 
council and brave in execution—to be boldest among 


Ivan hoe 


235 


the bold, and gentlest among the gentle, I knovt no 
voice save his father’s-” 

“Be silent, Lady Rowena!—on this subject only 
I hear you not. Prepare yourself for the Prince’s 
festival: we have been summoned thither with un¬ 
wonted circumstance of honor and of courtesy, such 
as the haughty Normans have rarely used to our 
race since the fatal day of Hastings. Thither will 
I go, were it only to show these proud Normans 
how little the fate of a son, who could defeat their 
bravest, can affect a Saxon.” 

“Thither,” said Rowena, “do I NOT go; and I 
pray you to beware, lest what you mean for courage 
and constancy shall be accounted hardness of heart.” 

'•Remain at home, then, ungrateful ladyr,” an¬ 
swered Cedric; “thine is the hard heart, which can 
sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an idle 
and unauthorized attachment. I seek the noble 
Athelstane, and with him attend the banquet of 
John of AAjou.” 

He went accordingly to the banquet, of which we 
have already mentioned the principal events. Im¬ 
mediately upon retiring from the castle, the Saxon 
thanes, with their attendants, took horse; and it 
was during the bustle which attended their doing 
so, that Cedric, for the first time, cast his eyes upon 
the deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon had returned 
from the banquet, as we have seen, in no very placid 
humor, and wanted but a pretext for wreaking his 
anger upon some one. “The gyves!” he said, “the 
gyves!—Oswald—Hundlbert! Dogs and villains!— 
why leave ye the knave unfettered?” 

Without daring to remonstrate, the companions of 
Gurth bound him with a halter, as the readiest cord 
which occurred. He submitted to the operation 
without remonstrance, except that, darting a re- 



236 


IVANHOE 


proachful look at his master, he said, “This comes 
of loving your flesh and blood better than mine 
own.” 

“To horse, and forward!” said Cedric. 

“It is indeed full time,” said the noble Athel- 
stane; “for if we ride not the faster, the worthy 
Abbot WaltheofFs preparations for a rere-supper 
will be altogether spoiled.” 

The travelers, however, used such speed as to 
reach the convent of St. Withhold’s before the ap¬ 
prehended evil took place. The Abbot, himself of 
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons 
with the profuse and exuberant hospitality of their 
nation, wherein they indulged to a late, or rather 
an early, hour; nor did they take leave of their 
reverend host the next morning until they had 
shared with him a sumptuous refection. 

As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery, 
an incident happened somewhat alarming to the 
Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most 
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens, 
and to whose opinions can be traced most of those 
notions upon such subjects still to be found among 
our popular antiquities. For the Normans being a 
mixed race, and better informed according to the 
information of the times, had lost most of the 
superstitious prejudices which their ancestors had 
brought from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves 
upon thinking freely on such topics. 

In the present instance, the apprehension of im¬ 
pending evil was inspired by no less respectable a 
prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting 
upright, howled most piteously as the foremost 
riders left the gate, and presently afterwards, bark- 



Ivan hoe 


237 


ling wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent 
| upon attaching itself to the party. 

“I like not that music, father Cedric,’” said 
Athelstane; for by this title of respect he was ac- 
i customed to address him. 

“Nor I either, uncle,” said Wamba; “I greatly 
| fear we shall have to pay the piper.” 

“In my mind,” said Athelstane, upon whose mem¬ 
ory the Abbot’s good ale (for Burton was already 
famous for that genial liquor) had made a favor¬ 
able impression,—“in my mind we had better turn 
back, and abide with the Abbot until the afternoon, 
j It is unlucky to travel where your path is crossed 
by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have 
eaten your next meal.” 

, “Away!” said Cedric, impatiently; “the day is 
already too short for our journey. For the dog, I 
know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth, 
i a useless fugitive like its master.” 

So saying, and rising at the same time in his stir- 
i rups, impatient at the interruption of his journey, 

| he launched his javelin at poor Fangs—for Fangs 
it was, who, having traced his master thus far upon 
; his stolen expedition, had here lost him, and was 
now, in his uncouth way, rejoicing at his reappear- 
; ance. The javelin inflicted a wound upon the 
animal’s shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning him 
to the earth; and Fangs fled howling from the 
presence of the enraged thane. Gurth’s heart 
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated 
slaughter of his faithful adherent in a degree 
much deeper than the harsh treatment he had him- 
j self received. Having in vain attempted to raise 
j his hand to his eyes, he said to Wamba, who, see- 
i ing his master’s ill-humor, had prudently retreated 
! to the rear, “I pray thee, do me the kindness to 



238 


IVANHOE 


wipe my eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the 
dust offends me, and these bonds will not let me 
help myself one way or another.” 

Wamba did him the service he required, and 
they rode side by side for some time, during which 
Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he 
could repress his feelings no longer. 

“Friend Wamba,” said he, “of all those who are 
fools enough to serve Cedric, thou alone hast 
dexerity enough to make thy folly acceptable to 
him. Go to him, therefore, and tell him that neith¬ 
er for love nor fear will Gurth serve him longer. 
He may strike the head from me—he may scourge 
me—he may load me with irons—but henceforth 
he shall never compel me either to love or to obey 
him. Go to him, then, and tell him that Gurth the 
son of Beowulph renounces his service.” 

“Assuredly,” said Wamba, “fool as I am, I shall 
not do your fool’s errand. Cedric hath another 
javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he 
does not always miss his mark.” 

“I care not,” replied Gurth, “how soon he makes 
a mark of me. Yesterday he left Wilfred, my 
young master, in his blood. To-day he has striven 
to kill before my face the only other living creat¬ 
ure that ever showed me kindness. By Saint Ed¬ 
mund Saint Dustan, Saint Withold, Saint Edward 
the Confessor, and every other Saxon saint in the 
calendar” (for Cedric never swore by any that was 
not of Saxon lineage, and all his household had 
the same limited devotion), “I will never forgive I 
him!” i 

“To my thinking, now,” said the Jester, who 
was frequently wont to act as peace-maker in the 

Question: What reasons did Gurth have for being an- 
gry at Cedric? 




IVANHOE 


239 


lamily, “our master did not propose to hurt Fangs, 
>ut only to affright him. For, if you observe, he 
ose in his stirrups, as thereby meaning to overcast 
he mark; and so he would have done, but Fangs 
lappening to bound up at the very moment, re- 
eived a scratch, which I will be bound to heal with 
i penny’s breadth of tar.” 

“If I thought so,” said Gurth—“if I could but 
hink so—but no—I saw the javelin was well aimed 
—I heard it whizz through the air with all the 
vrathful malevolence of him who cast it, and it 
quivered after it had pitched in the ground, as if 
vith regret for having missed its mark. By the hog 
lear to St. Anthony, I renounce him!” 

And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen 

I ulence, which no efforts of the Jester could again 
nduce him to break. 

Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders of 
he troop conversed together on the state of the 
and, on the dissensions of the royal family, on the 
euds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and 
n the chance which there was that the oppressed 
Saxons might be able to free themselves from the 
oke of the Normans, or at least to elevate them¬ 
selves into national consequence and independence, 
during the civil convulsions which were likely to 
ensue. On this subject Cedric was all animation. 
iThe restoration of the independence of his race 
was the idol of his heart, to which he had willingly 
sacrificed domestic happiness, and the interests of 
his own son. But, in order to achieve this great 
revolution in favor of the native English, it was 
necessary that they should be united among them¬ 
selves, and act under an acknowledged head. The 
necessity of choosing their chief from the Saxon 
blood-royal was not only evident in itself, but had 





240 


Ivan hoe 


been made a solemn condition by those whom Cedric 
had intrusted with his secret plans and hopes. 
Athelstane had this quality at least; and though 
he had few mental accomplishments or talents to 
recommend him as a leader, he had still a goodly 
person, was no coward, had been accustomed to 
martial exercises, and seemed willing to defer to 
the advice of counselors more wise than himself. 
Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospit¬ 
able, and believed to be good-natured. But what¬ 
ever pretensions Athelstane had to be considered 
as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that 
nation were disposed to prefer to his the title of 
the Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from Al¬ 
fred, and whose father having been a chief re¬ 
nowned for wisdom, courage, and generosity, his 
memory was highly honored by his oppressed 
countrymen. 

It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric, 
had he been so disposed, to have placed himself at 
the head of a third party, as formidable at least as 
any of the others. To counterbalance their royal 
descent, he had courage, activity, energy, and, above 
all, that devoted attachment to the cause which had 
procured him the epithet of The Saxon, and his 
birth was inferior to none, excepting only that of 
Athelstane and his ward. These qualities, however, 
were unalloyed by the slightest shade of selfish¬ 
ness; and, instead of dividing yet farther his weak¬ 
ened nation by forming a faction of his own, it was 
a leading part of Cedric’s plan to extinguish that 
which already existed, by promoting a marriage 
betwixt Rowena and Athelstane. An obstacle oc¬ 
curred to this his favorite project, in the mutual 
attachment of his ward and his son; and hence the 


IVANHOE 


241 


-riginal cause of the banishment of Wilfred from 
he house of his father. 

I This stern measure Cedric had adopted, in hopes 
hat, during Wilfred’s absence, Rowena might re- 
inquish her preference, but in this hope he was 
disappointed; a disappointment which might be 
attributed in part to the mode in which his ward 
Lad been educated. Cedric, to whom the name of 
Alfred was as that of a deity, had treated the sole 
emaining scion of that great monarch with a de- 
free of observance, such as, perhaps, was in those 
lays scarce paid to an acknowledged princess, 
jtowena’s will had been in almost all cases a law 
jo his household; and Cedric himself, as if deter- 
nined that her sovereignty should be fully ac¬ 
knowledged within that little circle at least, seemed 
;o take a pride in acting as the first of her sub- 
ects. Thus trained in the exercise not only of free 
vill, but despotic authority, Rowena was, by her 
previous education, disposed both to resist and to 
resent any attempt to control her affections, or 
jlispose of her hand contrary to her inclinations, 
and to assert her independence in a case in which 
even those females who have been trained up to 
abedience and subjection, are not infrequently apt 
to dispute the authority of guardians and parents. 
The opinions which she felt strongly, she avowed 
boldly; and Cedric, who could not free himself from 
his habitual deference to her opinions, felt totally 
‘at a loss how to enforce his authority of guard¬ 
ian. 

( It was in vain that he attempted to dazzle her 
jwith the prospect of a visionary throne. Rowena, 
iwho possessed strong sense, neither considered his 


Question : What plans did Cedric have for the Saxons? 





242 


IVANHOE 


plan as practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she 
was concerned, could it have been achieved. With¬ 
out attempting to conceal her avowed preference of 
Wilfred of Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that 
favored knight out of question, she would rather 
take refuge in a convent, than share a throne with 
Athelstane, whom, having always despised, she now 
began, on account of the trouble she received on 
his account, thoroughly to detest. 

Nevertheless, Cedric, whose opinion of women’s 
constancy was far from strong, persisted in using 
every means in his power to bring about the pro¬ 
posed match, in which he conceived he was ren¬ 
dering an important service to the Saxon cause. The 
sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the 
lists at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost 
a death’s blow to his hopes. His paternal affec¬ 
tion, it is true, had for an instant gained the victory 
over pride and patriotism; but both had returned 
in full force, and under their joint operation, he 
was now bent upon making a determined effort foi 
the union of Athelstane and Rowena, together with 
expediting those other measures which seemed 
necessary to forward the restoration of Saxon in¬ 
dependence. 

On this last subject, he was now laboring with 
Athelstane, not without having reason, every now 
and then, to lament, like Hostspur , 1 that he should 
have moved such a dish of skimmed milk to so hon¬ 
orable an action. Athelstane, it is true, was vain 
enough, and loved to have his ears tickled with 
tales of his high descent, and of his right by in¬ 
heritance to homage and sovereignty. But his petty 
vanity was sufficiently gratified by receiving this 
homage at the hands of his immediate attendants 


"King Henry IV, Part I, II 3. 36. 





IVANHOE 


243 


and of the Saxons who approached him. If he had 
the courage to encounter danger, he at least hated 
the trouble of going to seek it; and while he agreed 
in the general principles laid down by Cedric con¬ 
cerning the claim of the Saxons to independence, 
sand was still more easily convinced of his own 
'title to reign over them when that independence 
should be attained, yet when the means of assert¬ 
ing these rights came to be discussed, he was still 
[“Athelstane the Unready,” slow, irresolute, pro¬ 
crastinating, and unenterprising. The warm and 
impassioned exhortations of Cedric had as little 
effect upon his impassive temper, as red-hot balls 
i alighting in the water, which produce a little 
j sound and smoke, and are instantly extinguished. 

; If, leaving this task, which might be compared 
to spurring a tired jade, or to hammering upon cold 
Iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he re¬ 
ceived little more satisfaction from conferring with 
1 her. For, as his presence interrupted the discourse 
1 between the lady and her favorite attendant upon 
the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha failed 
I not to revenge both her mistress and herself by 
recurring to the overthrow of Athelstane in the 
lists, the most disagreeable subject which could 
greet the ears of Cedric. To this sturdy Saxon, 
therefore, the day’s journey was fraught with all 
manner of displeasure and discomfort; so that he 
more than once internally cursed the tournament, 
and him who had proclaimed it, together with his 
own folly in ever thinking of going thfther. 

At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the trav¬ 
elers paused in a woodland shade by a fountain, to 
repose their horses and partake of some provisions, 
with which the hospitable Abbot had loaded a 
sumpter mule. Their repast was a pretty long one ; 




244 


IVANHOE 


and these severai interruptions rendered it im¬ 
possible for them to hope to reach Rotherwood 
without traveling all night, a conviction which in¬ 
duced them to proceed on their way. at a more 
hasty pace than they had hitherto used. 




CHAPTER XIX 


A train of armed men, some noble dame 
Escorting (so their scatter'd words discover'd, 

As unperceived I hung upon their rear), 

Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night 
Within the castle. 

Orra , a Tragedy. 

The travelers had now reached the verge of the 
wooded country, and were about to plunge into its 
recesses, held dangerous at that time from the num¬ 
ber of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had 
driven to despair, and who occupied the forests in 
such large bands as could easily bid defiance to 
the feeble police of the period. From these rovers, 
however, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, 
Cedric and Athelstane accounted themselves se¬ 
cure, as they had in attendance ten servants, be¬ 
sides Wamba and Ghirth, whose aid could not be 
counted upon, the one being a jester and the other 
a captive. It may be added, that in traveling thus 
late through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane re¬ 
lied on their descent and character, as well as their 
courage. The outlaws, whom the severity of the 
forest laws had reduced to this roving and desper¬ 
ate mode of life, were chiefly peasants and yeomen 
of Saxon descent, and were generally supposed to 
respect the persons and property of their country¬ 
men. 

As the travelers journeyed on their way, they were 
alarmed by repeated cries for assistance; and when 
they rode up to the place from whence they came, 
they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed 
upon the ground, beside which sat a young woman, 
richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while an old 
man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong to 



246 


IVANHOE 


the same nation, walked up and down with ges¬ 
tures expressive of the deepest despair, and wrung 
his hands, as if affected by some strange disaster. 

To the inquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the 
old Jew could for some time only answer by in¬ 
voking the protection of all the patriarchs of the 
Old Testament successively against, the sons of 
Ishmael, who were coming to smite them, hip and 
thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he began 
to come to himself out of this agony of terror, 
Isaac of York (for it was our old friend) was at 
length able to explain that he had hired a body¬ 
guard of six men at Ashby, together with mules for 
carrying the litter of a sick friend. This party 
had undertaken to escort him as far as Doncaster. 
They had come thus far in safety; but having re¬ 
ceived information from a woodcutter that there 
was a strong band of outlaws lying in wait in the 
woods before them, Isaac’s mercenaries had not 
only taken flight, but had carried off with them the 
horses which bore the litter, and left the Jew and 
his daughter without the means either of defense 
or of retreat, to be plundered, and probably mur¬ 
dered, by the banditti, who they expected every 
moment would bring down upon them. “Would it 
but please your valors,” added Isaac, in a tone of 
deep humiliation, “to permit the poor Jews to travel 
under your safeguard, I swear by the tables of our 
law that never has favor been conferred upon a 
child of Israel since the days of our captivity, 
which shall be more gratefully acknowledged.” 

“Dog of a Jew!” said Athelstane, whose mem¬ 
ory was of that petty kind that stores up_ trifles of 
all kinds, but particularly trifling offenses, “dost 
not remember how thou didst beard us in the gal¬ 
lery at the tilt-yard? Fight or flee, or compound 



IVANHOE 


247 


with the outlaws as thou does list, ask neither aid 
nor company from us; and if they rob only such 
as thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine own share, 
shall hold them right honest folk.” 

Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of 
his companion. “We shall do better,” said he, “to 
leave them two of our attendants and two horses 
to convey them back to the next village. It will 
diminish our strength but little; and with your 
good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of those 
who remain, it will be light work) for us to face 
twenty of those runagates.” 

Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of out¬ 
laws in force, and so near them, strongly seconded 
the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca, sud¬ 
denly quitting her dejected posture, and making her 
way through the attendants to the palfrey of the 
Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the Oriental 
fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem of 
Rowena’s garment. Then rising, and throwing 
back her veil, she implored her in the great name 
of the God whom they both worshiped, and by that 
revelation of the Law 1 upon Mount Sinai, in which 
they both believed, that she would have compas¬ 
sion upon them, and suffer them to go forward 
under their safeguard. “It is not for myself that 
I pray this favor,” said Rebecca, “nor is it even 
for that poor old man. I know that to wrong and 
to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit, 
with the Christians; and what is it to us whether 
it be done in the city, in the desert, or in the field? 
But it is in the name of one dear to many, and 
dear even to you, that I beseech you to let this sick 
person be transported with care and tenderness 
under your protection. For, if evil chance him, the 


Exodus XX. 




248 


IVANHOE 


last moment of your life would be embittered with 
regret for denying that which I ask of you.” 

The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca 
made this appeal, gave it double weight with the 
fair Saxon. 

“The man is old, and feeble,” she said to her 
guardian, “the maiden young and beautiful, their 
friend sick and in peril of his life—Jews though 
they be, we cannot as Christians leave them in this 
extremity. Let them unload two of the sumpter- 
mules, and put the baggage behind two of the 
serfs. The mules may transport the litter, and we 
have led horses for the old man and his daughter.” 

Cedric readily assented to what she proposed, 
and Athelstane only added the condition, “that they 
should travel in the rear of the whole party, where 
Wamba,” he said, “might attend them with his 
shield of boar’s brawn.” 

“I have left my shield in the tilt-yard,” answered 
the Jester, “as has been the fate of many a better 
knight than myself.” 

Athelstane colored deeply, for such had been his 
own fate on the last day of the tournament; while 
Rowena, who was pleased in the same proportion, 
as if to make amends for the brutal jest of her 
unfeeling suitor, requested Rebecca to ride by her 
side. 

“It were not fit I should do so,” answered 
Rebecca, with proud humility, “where my society 
might be held a disgrace to my protectress.” 

By this time the change of baggage was hastily 
achieved; for the single word “outlaws” rendered 
every one sufficiently alert, and the approach of 
twilight made the sound yet more impressive. Amid 


Question: Who is the friend in the litter? 








IVANHOE 


249 


the bustle, Gurth was taken from horseback, in the 
; course of which removal he prevailed upon the 
: Jester to slack the cord with which his arms were 
bound. It was so negligently refastened, perhaps 
intentionally, on the part of Wamba, that Gurth 
found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether 
| from bondage, and then, gliding into the thicket, 
he made his escape from the party. 

The bustle had been considerable, and it was 
some time before Gurth was missed; for, as he was 
to be placed for the rest of the journey behind a 
servant, every one supposed that some other of His 
companions had him under his custody, and when 
it began to be whispered among them that Gurth 
had actually disappeared, they were under such 
immediate expectation of an attack from the out¬ 
laws, that it was not held convenient to pay much 
attention to the circumstance. 

The path upon which the party traveled was now 
so narrow as not to admit, with any sort of conven¬ 
ience, above two riders abreast, and began to de¬ 
scend into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose 
banks were broken, swampy, and overgrown with 
dwarf willows. Cedric and Athlestane, who were 
at the head of their retinue, saw the risk of being 
attacked at this pass; but neither of them having 
had much practice in war, no better mode of pre¬ 
venting the danger occurred to them than that they 
should hasten through the defile as fast as pos¬ 
sible. Advancing, therefore, without much order, 
they had just crossed the brook with a part of their 
followers, when they were assailed in front, flank, 
and rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in 
their confused and ill-prepared condition, it was 
impossible to offer effectual resistance. The shout 
of “A white dragon!—a white dragon!—Saint 


250 


Ivan hoe 


George for merry England!” war-cries adopted by 
the assailants, as belonging to their assumed char¬ 
acter of Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, 
and on every side enemies appeared with a rapidity 
of advance and attack which seemed to multiply 
their numbers. 

Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at 
the same moment, and each under circumstances 
expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant 
that an enemy appeared, launched at him his re¬ 
maining javelin, which, taking better effect than 
that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man 
against an oak-tree that happened to be close be¬ 
hind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his 
horse against a second, drawing his sword at the 
same time, and striking with such inconsiderate 
fury, that his weapon encountered a thick branch 
which hung over him, and he was disarmed by the 
violence of his own blow. He was instantly made 
prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three 
of the banditti who crowded around him. Athel- 
stance shared his captivity, his bridle having been 
seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long 
before he could draw his weapon, or assume any 
posture of effectual defense. 

The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, sur¬ 
prised and terrified at the fate of their masters, 
fell an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady 
Rowena, in the center of the cavalcade, and the Jew 
and his daughter in the rear, experienced the same 
misfortune. 

Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who 
showed upon the occasion much more courage than 
those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed 
himself of a sword belonging to one of the domes¬ 
tics, who was just drawing it with a tardy and 


IVANHOE 


251 


irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion, drove 
back several who approached him, and made a 
prave though ineffectual attempt to succor his mas¬ 
ter. Finding himself overpowered, the Jester at 
length threw himself from his horse, plunged into 
the thicket, and favored by the general confusion, 
escaped from the scene of action. 

Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found him¬ 
self safe, hesitated more than once whether he 
Should not turn back and share the captivity of a 
master to whom he was sincerely attached. 

“I have heard men talk of the blessings of free¬ 
dom, M he said to himself, “but I wish any wise man 
would teach me what use to make of it now that 
I have it.” 

As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice very 
near him called out in a low and cautious tone, 
“Wamba!” and, at the same time, a dog, which he 
recognized to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned 
upon him. “Gurth!” answered Wamba, with the 
same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood 
before him. 

“What is the matter?” said he eagerly; “what 
mean these cries, and that clashing of swords?” 

“Only a trick of the times,” said Wamba; “they 

are all prisoners.” . 

“Who are prisoners?” exclaimed Gurth, impatiently. 

“My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundi- 
bert, and Oswald.” 

“In the name of God!” said Gurth, “how came they 
prisoners?—and to whom?” 

“Our master was too ready to fight,” said the 
Jester; “and Athelstane was not ready enough, and 
no other person was ready at all. And they are 

Question: What is the value of the escape of Gurth 

and Wamba? 






252 


IVANHOE 


prisoners to green cassocks, and black visors. And 
they lie all tumbled about on the green, like the 
crabapples, that you shake down to your swine. 
And I would laugh at it,” said the honest Jester, 
“if I could for weeping.” And he shed tears of 
unfeigned sorrow. 

Gurth’s countenance kindled—“Wamba,” he said, 
“thou hast a weapon, and thy heart was ever 
stronger than thy brain,—we are only two—but a 
sudden attack from men of resolution will do much 
—follow me!” 

“Whither?—and for what purpose?” said the 
Jester. 

“To rescue Cedric.” 

“But you have renounced his service but now,” 
said Wamba. 

“That,” said Gurth, “was but while he was for^ 
tunate—follow me!” 

As the Jester was about to obey, a third person 
suddenly made his appearance, and commanded them 
both to halt. From his dress and arms, Wamba 
would have conjectured him to be one of those 
outlaws who had just assailed his master; but, be¬ 
sides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric 
across his shoulder, with a rich bugle-horn which 
it supported, as well as the calm and commanding 
expression of his voice and manner, made him, not¬ 
withstanding the twilight, recognize Locksley the 
yeoman, who had been victorious, under such dis¬ 
advantageous circumstances, in the contest for the 
prize of archery. v> 

“What is the meaning of all this,” said he, “or 
who is it that rifle, and ransom, and make prisoners 
in these forests?” 

“You may look at their cassocks close by,” said 
Wamba, “and see whether they be thy children’s 




IVANHOE 


253 


coats or no—for they are as like thine own, as one 
green pea-cod is to another.” 

“I 'will learn that presently,” answered Locksley; 
“and I charge ye, on peril of your lives, not to stir 
from the place where ye stand until I have re¬ 
turned. Obey me, and it shall be the better for 
you and your masters. Yet, stay, I must render 
myself as like these men as possible.” 

So saying, he unbuckled his baldric with the 
jbugle, took a feather from his cap, and gave them 
to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch, and 
repeating his charges to them to stand fast, went 
to execute his purposes of reconnoitering. 

“Shall we stand fast, Gurth?” said Wamba; “or 
shall we e’en give him leg-bail?—In my foolish 
mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much 
in readiness, to be himself a true man. 

“Let him be the devil,” said Gurth, “an he will. 
We can be no worse of waiting his return. If he 
belong to that party he must already have given 
them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to 
fight or fly. Besides, I have late experience, that 
arrant thieves are not the worst men in the world 
to have to deal with.” 

The yoeman returned in the course of a few 

minutes. . _ 

“Friend Gurth,” he said, “I have mingled among 
yon men, and have learnt to whom they belong, and 
whither they are bound. There is, I think, no 
chance that they will proceed to any actual violence 
i against their prisoners. For three men to attempt 
them at this moment, were little else than madness, 
■for they are good men of war, and have, as such, 
placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one 
approaches. But I trust soon to gather such a 
force, as may act in defiance of all their precau- 



254 


IVANHOE 


tions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faith¬ 
ful servants, of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of 
the rights of Englishmen. He shall not want Eng¬ 
lish hands to help him in this extremity. Come 
then with me, until I gather more aid.” 

So saying, he walked through the wood at a 
great pace, followed by the Jester and the swine¬ 
herd. It was not consistent with Wamba’s humor 
to travel long in silence. 

“I think,” said he, looking at the baldric and 
bugle which he still carried, “that I saw the arrow 
shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long 
since as Christmas.” 

“And I,” said Gurth, “could take it on my hali- 
dom, that I have heard the voice of the good yeo¬ 
man who won it, by night as well as by day, and 
that the moon is not three days older since I did 
so.” 

“Mine honest friends,” replied the yeoman, 
“who, or what I am, is little to the present purpose; 
should I free your master, you will have reason to 
think me the best friend you have ever had in your 
lives. And whether I am known by one name or an¬ 
other—or whether I can draw a bow as well or 
better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleas¬ 
ure to walk in sunshine or by moonlight, are mat¬ 
ters, which, as they do not concern you, so neither 
need ye busy yourselves respecting them.” 

“Our heads are in the lion’s mouth,” said 
Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth, “get them out how 
we can.” 

Question : How are you prepared by conversation for 
the appearance of the outlaws? 

Question: Who is this outlaw? 

Question : Do you notice any points in common with 
De Bracy’s plans? 



lVANHOE 


255 


“Hush—be silent,” said Gurth. “Offend him 
not by thy folly, and I trust sincerely that all 
will go well.” 





CHAPTER XX 

When autumn nights were long and drear, 

And forest walks were dark and dim, 

How sweet on the pilgrim’s ear 

Was wont to steal the hermit’s hymn! 

Devotion borrows Music’s tone, 

And Music took Devotion’s wing; 

And like the bird that hails the sun, 

They soar to heaven, and soaring sing, 

The Hermit of St. Clement's Well. 

It was after three hours’ good walking that the 
servants of Cedric, with their mysterious guide, 
arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the 
center of which grew an oak-tree of enormous 
magnitude, throwing its twisted branches in every 
direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay 
stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, 
walked to and fro in the moonlight shade. 

Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, 
the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the sleepers 
as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six 
arrows placed on the string were pointed towards 
the quarter from which the travelers approached, 
when their guide, being recognized, was welcomed 
with every token of respect and attachment, and 
all signs and fears of a rough reception at once 
subsided. 

‘Where is the Miller?” was his first question. 

“On the road towards Rotherham.” 

“With how many?” demanded the leader, for 
such he seemed to be. 

“With six men and good hope of booty, if it 
please St. Nicholas.” 


IVANHOE 


257 


“Devoutly spoken,’’ said Locksley; “and where is 
Allan-a-Dale?” 

“Walked up towards the Watling-street , 1 to 
watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx.” 

“That is well thought on also,” replied the Cap¬ 
tain;—“and where is the Friar?” 

“In his cell.” 

“Thither will I go,” said Locksley. “Disperse 
and seek your companions. Collect what force you 
can, for there’s game afoot that must be hunted 
hard, and will turn to bay. Meet me here by day¬ 
break.—And, stay,” he added, “I have forgotten 
what is most necessary of the whole—'Two of you 
take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the 
Castle of Front-de-Bceuf. A set of gallants, who 
have been masquerading in such guise as our own, 
are carrying a band of prisoners thither—Watch 
them closely, for even if they reach the castle be¬ 
fore we collect our force, our honor is concerned 
to punish them, and we will find means to do so. 
Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dis¬ 
patch one of your comrades, the lightest of foot, to 
bring the news of the yeomen thereabout.” 

They promised implicit obedience, and departed 
with alacrity on their different errands. In the 
meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, 
who now looked upon him with great respect, as 
well as some fear, pursued their way to the Chapel 
i of Copmanhurst. 

When they had reached the little moonlight 
glade, having in front the reverend, though ruinous 
! chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited to 
ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, If 
this be the habitation of a thief, it makes good 

l An old Roman road which began at Dover and ran 
through London to Chester and York. 





258 


Ivan hoe 


the old proverb, The nearer the church the farther 
from God.—And by my cockscomb ,” 1 he added, “I 
think it be even so—Hearken but to the black 
sanctus 2 which they are singing in the hermitage!” 

In fact the anchorite and his guest were per¬ 
forming, at the full extent of their very powerful 
lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the 
burden: 

“Come, trowl the brown bowl to me. 

Bully boy, bully boy. 

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me; 

Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking. 

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me.” 

“Now, that is not ill sung,” said Wamba, who 
had thrown in a few of his own flourishes to help 
out the chorus. “But who, in the saint’s name, 
ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant 
come from out a hermit’s cell at midnight!” 

“Marry, that should I,” said Gurth, “for the jolly 
Clerk of Copmanhurst is a known man, and kills 
half the deer that are stolen in this walk. Men 
say that the keeper has complained to his official, 
and that he will be stripped of his cowl and cope 
altogether, if he keep not better order.” , 

While they were thus speaking, Locksley’s loud 
and repeated knocks had at length disturbed they 
anchorite and his guest. “By my beads,” said the 
hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, “here 
come more benighted guests. I would not for my 
cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise. 
All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and 
there be those malignant enough to construe the 


tool’s cap. 

2 Sanctus is a hymn of mass beginning, “Sanctus, Sanctus.” 
A black Sanctus would be a mock hymn. 




IVANHOE 


259 


hospitable refreshment which I have been offering 
to you, a weary traveler, for the matter of three 
short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauch¬ 
ery, vices alike alien to my procession and my dis¬ 
position/’ 

“Base calumniators!” replied the knight; “I 
would I had the chastising of them. Nevertheless, 
Holy Clerk, it~ is true that all have their enemies; 
and there be those in this very land whom I would 
rather speak to through the bars of my helmet than 
barefaced.” 

“Get thine iron pot on thy head, then, friend 
Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit,” 
said the hermit, “while I remove these pewter 
flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine 
own pate; and to drown the clatter—for, in faith. 
I feel somewhat unsteady—strike into the tune 
which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the 
words—I scarce know them myself.” 

So saying, he struck up a thundering De pro- 
fundis clamavi under cover of which he removed 
the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight, 
laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while, 
assisted his host with his voice from time to time 
as his mirth permitted. 

“What devil’s matins are you after at this hour?” 
said a voice from without. 

“Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveler!” said the 
hermit, whose own noise, and perhaps his nocturnal 
potations, prevented from recognizing accents which 
were tolerably familiar to him—“Wend on your 
way, in the name of God and Saint Dunstan, and 
disturb not the devotions of me and my holy brother.” 

“Mad priest,” answered the voice from without, 
“open to Locksley!” 




260 


IVANHOE 


“All’s safe—all’s right,” said the hermit to his 
companion. 

“But who is he?” said the Black Knight; “It 
imports me much to know.” 

“Who is he?” answered the hermit; “I tell thee 
he is a friend.” 

“But what friend?” answered the knight; “for 
he may be friend to thee and none of mine.” 

“What friend?” replied the hermit; “that now, 
is one of the questions that is more easily askled 
than answered. What friend?—why, he is, now 
that I bethink me a little, the very same honest 
keeper I told thee of a while since.” 

“Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious her¬ 
mit,” replied the knight, “I doubt it not. But undo 
the door to him before he beat it from its hinges.” 

The dogs, in the meantime, which had made a 
dreadful baying at the commencement of the dis¬ 
turbance, seemed now to recognize the voice of him 
who stood without; for, totally changing their man¬ 
ner, they scratched and whined at the door, as if 
interceding for his admission. The hermit speedily 
unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his 
two companions. 

“Why, hermit,” was the yeoman’s first question, 
as soon as he beheld the knight, “what boon com¬ 
panion hast thou here?” 

“A brother of our order,” replied the friar, 
shaking his head; “we have been at our orisons all 
night.” 

“He is a monk of the church militant , 1 I think,” 
answered Locksley; “and there be more of them 
abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the 
rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need 

’Fighting sin in contrast to the church triumphant in 

Heaven which is victorious over sin. 





IVANIIOE 


261 


[every one of our merry men, whether clerk or lay¬ 
man.—But/’ he added, taking him a step aside, “art 
ithou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost 
[not know? Hast thou forgot our articles?” 

“Not know him!” replied the friar, boldly, “I 
know him as well as the beggar knows his dish.” 

“And what is his name, then?” demanded Lock- 
sley. 

“His name,” said the hermit—“his name is Sir 
Anthony of Scrabblestone—as if I would drink with 
a man, and did not know his name!” 

“Thou hast been drinking more than enough, 
[friar,” said the woodman, “and, I fear, prating 
more than enough, too.” 

“Good yeoman,” said the knight, coming for¬ 
ward, “be not wroth with my merry host. He did 
but afford me the hospitality which I would have 
compelled from him if he had refused it.” 

“Thou compel!” said the friar; “wait but till I 
have changed this gray gown for a green cassock, 
and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon 
thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woods- 
I man.” 

While he spoke thus, he stripped off his gown, 
and appeared in a close black buckram doublet and 
drawers, over which he speedily did don a cassock 
| of green, and hose of the same color. “I pray thee 
I truss my points,” said he to Wamba, “and thou 
I shalt have a cup of sack for thy labor.” 

“Gramercy for thy sack,” said Wamba; “but 
. think’st thou it is lawful for me to aid you to trans- 
1 mew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful fores¬ 
ter?” 

“Never fear,” said the hermit; “I will but con¬ 
fess the sins of my green cloak to my gray friar’s 
frock, and all shall be well again.” 






262 


IVANHOE 


“Amen!” answered the Jester; “a broadcloth 
penitent should have a sackcloth confessor, and your 
frock may absolve my motley doublet into the bar¬ 
gain.” 

So saying, he accommodated the friar with his 
assistance in tying the endless number of points, as 
the laces which attached the hose to the doublet 
were then termed. 

While they were thus employed, Locksley led the 
knight a little apart, and addressed him thus: 
“Deny it not, Sir Knight, you are he who decided 
the victory to the advantage of the English against 
the strangers on the second day of the tournament 
at Ashby.” 

“And what follows if you guess truly, good yeo¬ 
man?” replied the knight. 

“I should in that case hold you,” replied the yeo¬ 
man, “a friend to the weaker party.” 

“Such is the duty of a true knight, at least,” 
replied the Black Champion: “and I would not wil¬ 
lingly that there were reason to think otherwise 
of me.” 

“But for my purpose,” said the yeoman, “thou 
shouldst be as well a good Englishman as a good 
knight; for that, which I have to speak of, con¬ 
cerns, indeed, the duty of every honest man, but is 
more especially that of a true-born native of Eng¬ 
land.” 

“You can speak to no one,” replied the knight, 
“to whom England, and the life of every English¬ 
man, can be dearer than to me.” 

“I would willingly believe so,” said the woods¬ 
man, “for never had this country such need to be 
supported by those who love her. Hear me, and I 
will tell thee of an enterprise, in which, if thou 
be'st really that which thou seemest, thou mayst 


IVANHOE 


263 


take an honorable part. A band of villains, in the 
disquise of better men than themselves, have made 
themselves master of the person of a noble Eng¬ 
lishman, called Cedric the Saxon, together with his 
ward, and his friend Athelstane of Coningsburgh, 
and have transported them to a castle in this for¬ 
est, called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good 
knight and a good Englishman, wilt thou aid in 
their rescue?” 

“I am bound by my vow T to do so,” replied the 
knight ; “but I would willingly know who you are, 
who request my assistance in their behalf?” 

“I am,” said the forester, “a nameless man; but 
I am the friend of my country, and of my own 
country’s friends.—With this account of me you 
| must for the present remain satisfied, the more es- 
i pecially since you yourself desire to continue un¬ 
known. Believe, however, that my word, when 
pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs.” 

“I willingly believe it,” said the knight; “I have 
been accustomed to study men’s countenances, and 
I can read in thine honesty and resolution. I will, 
therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid 
thee in setting at freedom these oppressed captives; 
which done, I trust we shall part better acquainted, 
and well satisfied with each other.” 

“So,” said Wamba to Gurth,—for the friar being 
now fully equipped, the Jester, having approached 
to the other side of the hut, had heard the con¬ 
clusion of the conversation,—“So we have got a new 

ally? I trust the valor of the knight will be truer 

metal than the religion of the hermit, or the hon¬ 
esty of the yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a 


Question: Do you understand why the Black Knight 
was taken to the hermit’s? 




264 


IVANHOE 


born deer-stealer, and the priest like a lusty hypo¬ 
crite/’ 

“Hold thy peace, Wamba,” said Gurth; it may 
all be as thou dost guess; but were the horned 
devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to set at 
liberty Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should 
hardly have religion enough to refuse the foul 
fiend’s offer, and bid him get behind me.” 

The friar was now completely accoutered as a 
yoeman, with sword and buckler, bow and quiver, 
and a strong partisan over his shoulder. He left 
his cell at the head of the party, and, having care¬ 
fully locked the door, deposited the key under the 
threshold. 

“Art thou in condition to do good service, friar,” 
said Locksley, “or does the brown bowl still run in 
thy head?” 

“Not more than a draught of St. Dunstan’s foun¬ 
tain will allay,” answered the priest; “something 
there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of insta¬ 
bility in my legs, but you shall presently see both 
pass away.” 

So saying, he stepped to the- stone basin, in which 
the waters of the fountain as they fell formed 
bubbles which danced in the white moonlight, and 
took so long a draught as if he had meant to ex¬ 
haust the spring. 

“When didst thou drink as deep a draught of 
water before, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst?” said 
the Black Knight. 

“Never since my wine-butt leaked, and let out its 
liquor by an illegal vent,” replied the friar, “and 
so left me nothing to drink but my patron’s bounty 
here.” 

Then plunging his hands and head into the foun¬ 
tain, he washed from them all marks of the mid- 


IVANHOE 


265 


night revel. Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly 
priest twirled his heavy partisan round his head 
with three fingers, as if he had been balancing a 
| reed, exclaiming at the same time, “Where be those 
l false ravishers, who carry off wenches against 
!their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if 
I am not man enough for a dozen of them.” 

“Swearest thou. Holy Clerk?” said the Black 
Knight. 

“Clerk me no Clerks,” replied the transformed 
priest; “by Saint George and the Dragon, I am no 
longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my 
back.—When I am cased in my green cassock, I 
will drink, swear, and woo a lass, with any blithe 
forester in the West Riding.” 

“Come on, Jack Priest,” said Locksley, “and be 
silent; thou art as.noisy as a whole convent on a 
: holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to bed.— 
Come on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk of 
it—I say, come on, we must collect all our forces, 
and few enough we shall have, if we are to storm 
the Castle of Reginald Front-de-Bceuf.” 

“What! is it Front-de-Bceuf,” said the Black 
king's liege subjects?—Is he turned thief and op¬ 
pressor?” 

“Oppressor he ever was,” said Locksley. 

“And for thief,” said the priest, “I doubt if ever 
i be were even half so honest a man as many a thief 
of my acquaintance.” 

“Move on, priest, and be silent,” said the yeoman; 
“it were better you led the way to the place of ren¬ 
dezvous, than say what should be left unsaid, both 
in decency and prudence.” 



CHAPTER XXI 


Alas, how many hours and years have past, 

Since human forms have round this table sate, 

Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleam’d! 

Methinks, I hear the sound of time long pass’d 
Still murmuring o’er us, in the lofty void 
Of these dark arches, like the ling'ring voices 
Of those who long within their graves have slept. 

Orra, a Tragedy . 

While these measures were taking in behalf of 
Cedric and his companions the armed men by whom 
the latter had been seized hurried their captives 
along towards the place of security, where they in¬ 
tended to imprison them; but darkness came on fast, 
and the paths of the wood seemed but imperfectly 
known to the marauders. They were compelled to 
make several long halts, and once or twice to re¬ 
turn on their road to resume the direction which 
they wished to pursue. The summer morn had 
dawned upon them ere they could travel in full as¬ 
surance that they held the right path; but confidence 
returned with light, and the cavalcade now moved 
rapidly forward. Meanwhile, the following dia¬ 
logue took place between the two leaders of the ban¬ 
ditti. 

“It is time thou shouldst leave us, Sir Maurice," 
said the Templar to De Bracy, “in order to prepare 
the second part of thy mystery. Thou art next, thou 
knowest, to act the Knight Deliverer." 

“I have thought better of it," said De Bracy; “I 
will not leave thee till the prize is fairly deposited 
in Front-de-Bceuf’s castle. There will I appear be¬ 
fore the Lady Rowena in mine own shape, and trust 
that she will set down to the vehemence of my 
passion the violence of which I have been guilty." 



IVANHOE 


267 


“And what has made thee change thy plan, De 
Bracy?” replied the Knight Templar. 

“That concerns thee nothing/’ answered his com¬ 
panion. 

“I would hope, however, Sir Knight,” said the 
Templar, “that this alteration of measures arises 
j from no suspicion of my honorable meaning, such as 
Fitzurse endeavored to instill into thee?” 

“My thoughts are my own,” answered De Bracy; 
“the fiend laughs, they say, when one thief robs an¬ 
other; and we know, that were he to spit fire and 
brimstone instead, it would never prevent a Templar 
from following his bent.” 

“Or the leader of a Free Company,” answered the 
Templar, “from dreading at the hands of a comrade 
and friend the injustice he does to all mankind.” 

“This is unprofitable and perilous recrimination,” 
answered De Bracy; “suffice it to say, I know the 
morals of the Temple-Order, and I will not give thee 
the power of cheating me out of the fair prey for 
which I have run such risks.” 

“Psha,” replied the Templar, “what hast thou to 
fear?—Thou knowest the vows of our order.” 

“Right well,” said De Bracy, “and also how they 
are kept. Come, Sir Templar, the laws of gallantry 
have a liberal interpretation in Palestine, and this is 
a case in which I will trust nothing to your con¬ 
science.” 

“Hear the truth, then,” said the Templar; “I 
care not for your blue-eyed beauty. There is m that 
train one who will make me a better mate. 

“What! wouldst thou stoop to the waiting dam¬ 
sel?” said De Bracy. .... 

“No, Sir Knight,” said the Templar, haughtily. 
“To the waiting-woman will I not stoop. I have 
a prize among the captives as lovely as thine own. 



268 


Ivan hoe 


“By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess!” 

said De Bracy. | 

“And if I do,” said Bois-Gilbert, “who shall 

gainsay me?” 

“No one that I know,” said De Bracy, “unless it 
be your vow of celibacy, or a check of conscience for 
an intrigue with a Jewess.” 

“For my vow,” said the Templar, “our Grand 
Master hath granted me a dispensation. And for 
my conscience, a man that has slain three hundred 
Saracens, need not reckon up every little failing, like 
a village girl at her first confession upon Good Fri¬ 
day eve.” 

“Thou knowest best thine own privileges,” said 
De Bracy. “Yet I would have sworn thy thought 
had been more on the old usurer’s money-bags than 
on the black eyes of the daughter.” 

“I can admire both,” answered the Templar; 
“besides, the old Jew is but half-prize. I must share 
his spoils with Front-de-Bceuf, who will not lend us 
the use of his castle for nothing. I must have some¬ 
thing that I can term exclusively my own by this 
foray of ours, and I have fixed on the lovely Jewess 
as my peculiar prize. But, now thou knowest my 
drift, thou wilt resume thine own original plan, wilt 
thou not?—Thou has nothing, thou seest, to fear 
from my interference.” 

“No,” replied De Bracy, “I will remain beside 
my prize. What thou sayest is passing true, but I 
like not the privileges acquired by the dispensation 
of the Grand Master, and the merit acquired by the 
slaughter of three hundred Saracens. You have too 
good a right to a free pardon to render you very 
scrupulous about peccadilloes.” 

While this dialogue was proceeding, Cedric was 
endeavoring to wring out of those who guarded him 



IVANHOE 


269 


an avowal of their character and purpose. “You 
should be Englishmen/’ said he; “and yet, sacred 
Heaven! you help prey upon your countrymen as if 
you were very Normans. You should be my neigh¬ 
bors, and, if so, my friends; for which of my English 
neighbors have reason to be otherwise? I tell ye, 
yeomen, that even those among ye who have been 
branded with outlawry have had from me protec¬ 
tion; for I have pitied their miseries, and curst the 
oppression of their tyrannic nobles. What, then, 
would you have of me? or in what can this violence 
serve ye?—Ye are worse than brute beasts, in your 
actions, and will you imitate them in their very 
dumbness?” 

It w T as in vain that Cedric expostulated with his 
guards, who had too many good reasons for their 
silence to be induced to break it either by his wrath 
or his expostulations. They continued to hurry him 
along, traveling at a very rapid rate, until, at the 
*nd of an avenue of huge trees, arose Torquilstone, 
now the hoary and ancient castle of Reginald Front 
de-Bceuf. It was a fortress of no great size, consist¬ 
ing of a donjon, or large and high square tower, sur¬ 
rounded by buildings of inferior height, which were 
encircled by an inner courtyard. Around the exter¬ 
ior wall was a deep moat, supplied with water from 
a neighboring rivulet. Front-de-Boeuf, whose char¬ 
acter placed him often at feud with his enemies, 
had made considerable additions to the strength of 
his castle, by building towers upon the outward wall, 
so as to flank it at every angle. The access, as usual 
I in castles of the period, lay through an arched bar¬ 
bican, or outwork, which was terminated and de¬ 
fended by a small turret at each corner. 

Cedric no sooner saw the turrets of Front-de- 

Question : Name the plans for distributing the prisoners. 







270 


IVANIIOE 


Boeuf’s castle raise their gray and moss-grown bat¬ 
tlements, glimmering in the morning sun above the 
wood by which they were surrounded, than he in¬ 
stantly augured more truly concerning the cause of 
his misfortune. 

“I did injustice,” he said, “to the thieves and 
outlaws of these woods, when I supposed such ban¬ 
ditti to belong to their bands; I might as justly 
have confounded the foxes of these brakes with the 
ravening wolves of France. Tell me, dogs—is it my 
life or my wealth that your master aims at? Is it 
too much that two Saxons, myself and the noble 
Athelstane, should hold land in the country which 
was once the patrimony of our race?—Put us then 
to death, and complete your tyranny by taking our 
lives, as you began with our liberties. If the Saxon 
Cedric cannot rescue England, he is willing to die 
for her. Tell your tyrannical master, I do only 
beseech him to dismiss the Lady Rowena in honor 
and safety. She is a woman, and he need not dread 
her; and with us will die all who dare fight in her 
cause.” 

The attendants remained as mute to his address 
as to the former, and they now stood before the gate 
of the castle. De Bracy winded his horn three 
times, and the archers and cross-bowmen, who had 
manned the wall upon seeing their approach, has¬ 
tened to lower the drawbridge, and admit them. 
The prisoners were compelled by their guards to 
alight, and were conducted to an apartment where 
a hasty repast was offered them, of which none but 
Athelstane felt any inclination to partake. Neither 
had the descendant of the Confessor much time to 
do justice to the good cheer placed before them, 
for their guards gave him and Cedric to understand 
that they were to be imprisoned in a chamber apart 
from Rowena> Resistance was vain; and they were 



IVANHOE 


271 


compelled to follow to a large room, which, rising 
on clumsy Saxon pillars, resembled those refectories 
and chapter-houses which may be still seen in the 
most ancient parts of our most ancient monasteries. 

The Lady Rowena was next separated from her 
train, and conducted, with courtesy, indeed, but still 
without consulting her inclination, to a distant 
apartment. The same alarming distinction was con¬ 
ferred on Rebecca, in spite of her father’s entreat¬ 
ies, who offered even money, in his extremity of 
distress, that she might be permitted to abide with 
him. “Base unbeliever,” answered one of his guards, 
“when thou hast seen thy lair, thou wilt not wish 
| thy daughter to partake it.” And, without further 
discussion, the old Jew was forcibly dragged off in a 
different direction from the other prisoners. The 
domestics, after being carefully searched and dis¬ 
armed, were confined in another part of the castle; 
and Rowena was refused even the comfort she might 
have derived from the attendance of her handmaiden 
Elgitha. 

The apartment in which the Saxon chiefs were 
confined, for to them we turn our first attention, al¬ 
though at present used as a sort of guard-room, had 
formerly been the great hall of the castle. It was 
now abandoned to meaner purposes, because the 
present lord, among other additions to the conven¬ 
ience, security, and beauty of his baronical residence, 
had erected a new and noble hall, whose vaulted 
roof was supported by lighter and more elegant pil¬ 
lars, and fitted up with that higher degree of orna¬ 
ment which the Normans had already introduced 
j into architecture. 

Cedric paced the apartment, filled with indignant 
reflections on the past and on the present, while 






272 


Ivan hoe 


the apathy of his companion served, instead of 
patience and philosophy, to defend him against 
everything save the inconvenience of the present 
moment; and so little did he feel even this last, 
that he was only from time to time roused to a 
reply by Cedric’s animated and impassioned appeal 
to him. 

“Yes,” said Cedric, half speaking to himself, and 
half addressing himself to Athelstane, “it was in 
this very hall that my father feasted with Torquil 
Wolfganger, when he entertained the valiant and 
unfortunate Harold, 1 —then advancing against the 
Norwegians, who had united themselves to the rebel 
Tosti. It was in this hall that Harold returned the 
magnanimous answer to the ambassador of his rebel 
brother. Oft have I heard my father kindle as he 
told the tale. The envoy of Tosti was admitted, 
when this ample room could scarce, contain the 
crowd of noble Saxon leaders, who were quaffing 
the blood-red wine around their monarch.” 

“I hope,” said Athelstane, somewhat moved by 
this part of his friend’s discourse, “they will not 
forget to send us some wine and refections at noon 
—we had scarce a breathing-space allowed to break j 
our fast, and I never have the benefit of my food 
when I eat immediately after dismounting from 
horseback, though the leeches recommend that prac¬ 
tice.” 

Cedric went on with his story without noticing 
this interjectional observation of his friend. 

“The envoy of Tosti,” he said, “moved up the 
hall, undismayed by the frowning countenances of 

"The Saxon king defeated by William the Conqueror in 
1066 at Hastings. Harold defeated his brother Tosti in a 
battle just before Hastings. These times are indeed much 
too early for Cedric to remember, but they are interesting 





IVANHOE 


273 


all around him, until he made his obeisance before 
the throne of King Harold. 

“ ‘What terms,’ he said, ‘Lord King, hath thy 
brother Tosti to hope, if he should lay down his 
arms, and crave peace at thy hands?’ 

“ ‘A brother’s love,’ cried the generous Harold, 
‘and the fair earldom of Northumberland.’ 

“ ‘But should Tosti accept these terms,’ con¬ 
tinued the envoy, ‘what lands shall be assigned to 
his faithful ally, Hardrada, King of Norway?’ 

“ ‘Seven feet of English ground,’ answered 
Harold, fiercely, ‘or as Hardrada is said to be a 
giant, perhaps we may allow him twelve inches 
more.’ 

“The bell rung with acclamations, and cup and 
horn was filled to the Norwegian, who should be 
speedily in possession of his English territory.” 

“I could have pledged him with all my soul,” 
said Athelstane, “for my tongue cleaves to my 
palate.” 

“The baffled envoy,” continued Cedric, pursuing 
with animation his tale, though it interested not the 
listener, “retreated, to carry to Tosti and his ally 
the ominous answer to his injured brother. It was 
then that the distant towers of York, and the bloody 
streams of the Derwent , 1 beheld that direful conflict, 
in which, after displaying the most undaunted valor, 
the King of Norway and Tosti both fell, with ten 
thousand of their bravest followers. Who would 
have thought that upon the proud day when this bat¬ 
tle was won, the very gale which saved the Saxon 
banners in triumph was filling the Norman sails, 
and impelling them to the fatal shores of Sussex?— 
Who would have thought that Harold, within a 
few brief days, would himself possess no more of 


J A river near York. (See appendix). 






274 


Ivan hoe 


his kingdom than the share which he alloted in his 
wrath to the Norwegian invader?—Who would have 
thought that you, noble Athelstane—that you, de¬ 
scended of Harold’s blood, and that I, whose father 
was not the worst defender of the Saxon crown, 
should be prisoners to a vile Norman, in *the very 
hall in which our ancestors held such high festival?” 

“It is sad enough,” replied Athelstane; “but I 
trust they will hold us to a moderate ransom—At 
any late it cannot be their purpose to starve us out¬ 
right; and yet, although it is high noon, I see no 
preparations for serving dinner. Look up at the 
window, noble Cedric, and judge by the sunbeams if 
it is not on the verge of noon.” 

“It may be so,” answered Cedric; “but I cannot 
look on that stained lattice without its awakening 
other reflections than those which concern the pass¬ 
ing moment, or its privations. When that window 
was wrought, my noble friend, our hardy fathers' 
knew not the art of making glass, or of staining it 
—The pride of Wolfganger’s father brought an artist 
from Normandy to adorn his hall with this new 
species of emblazonment, that breaks the golden 
light of God’s blessed day into so many fantastic 
hues. The foreigner came here poor, beggarly, 
cringing, and subservient, ready to doff his cap to 
the meanest native of the household. He returned 
pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious country¬ 
men of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon 
nobles—a folly, 0, Athelstane, foreboded of old, as 
well as foreseen, by those descendants of Hengist 5 
and .his hardy tribes, who retained the simplicity of 
their manners. We made these strangers our bosom 
friends, our confidential servants; we borrowed their 
artists and their arts, and despised the honest sim- 


tbeader of early invading German forces. 




IVANHOE 


275 


plicity and hardihood with which our brave ances- 
i tors supported themselves, and we became enervated 
by Norman arts long ere we fell under Norman arms. 
Far better was our homely diet, eaten in peace and 
liberty, than the luxurious dainties, the love of 
j which hath delivered us as bondsmen to the foreign 
j conqueror!” 

“I should,” replied Athelstane, “hold very humble 
diet a luxury at present; and it astonishes me, noble 
Cedric, that you can bear so truly in mind the 
memory of past deeds, when it appeareth you forget 
the very hour of dinner.” 

“It is time lost,” muttered Cedric apart and im¬ 
patiently, “to speak to him of aught else but that 
which concerns his appetite! The soul of Hardi- 
canute 1 hath taken possession of him, and he 
hath no pleasure save to fill, to swill, and to call 
1 for more. Alas!” said he, looking at Athelstane with 
compassion, “that so dull a spirit should be lodged 
in so goodly a form! Alas! that such an enter¬ 
prise as the regeneration of England should turn on 
a hinge so imperfect! Wedded to Rowena, indeed, 
her nobler and more generous soul may yet awake 
the better nature which is torpid within him. Yet 
how should this be, while Rowena, Athelstane, and 
I myself remain the prisoners of this brutal ma¬ 
rauder, and have been made so perhaps from a sense 
of the dangers which our liberty might bring to the 
usurped power of this nation?” 

While the Saxon was plunged in these painful 
reflections, the door of their prison opened, and gave 
entrance to a sewer, holding his white rod of office. 
This* important person advanced into the chamber 
with a grave pace, followed by four attendants, bear- 

cruel and savage Danish king of England in the 
eleventh century. 




276 


Ivan hoe 


ing in a table covered with dishes, the sight and 
smell of which seemed to be an instant compensation 
to Athelstane for all the inconvenience he had under¬ 
gone. The persons who attended on the feast were 
masked and cloaked. 

“What mummery is this?” said Cedric; “think 
you that we are ignorant whose prisoners we are, 
when we are in the castle of your master? Tell' 
him,” he continued, willing to use this opportunity 
to open a negotiation for his freedom,—“tell your 
master, Reginald Front-de-Bceuf, that we know no 
reason he can have for withholding our liberty, ex¬ 
cepting his unlawful desire to enrich himself at 
our expense. Tell him that we yield to his rapacity, 
as in similar circumstances we should do to that of 
a literal robber. Let him name the ransom at which 
he rates our liberty, and it shall be paid, providing 
the exaction is suited to our means.” 

The sewer made no answer, but bowed his head. 

“And tell Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” said 
Athelstane, “that I send him my mortal defiance, 
and challenge him to combat with me, on foot or 
horseback, at any secure place, within eight days 
after our liberation; which, if he be a true knight, 
he will not, under these circumstances, venture to 
refuse or to delay.” 

“I shall deliver to the knight your defiance,” an¬ 
swered the sewer; “meanwhile I leave you to your 
food.” 

The challenge of Athelstane was delivered with 
no good grace; for a large mouthful, which required 
the exercise of both jaws at once, added to a natural 
hesitation, considerably damped the effect of the 
bold defiance it contained. Still, however, his speech 
was hailed by Cedric as an incontestable token of 
reviving spirit in his companion, whose previous in^ 



IVANHOE 


277 


lifference had begun, notwithstanding his respect 
for Athelstane’s descent, to wear out his patience. 
But he now cordially shook hands with him in token 
)f his approbation, and was somewhat grieved when 
Athelstane observed “that he would fight a dozen 
such men as Front-de-Bceuf, if, by doing, he 
:ould hasten his departure from a dungeon where 
;hey put so much garlic into their pottage.” Not¬ 
withstanding this intimation of a relapse into the 
apathy of sensuality, Cedric placed himself opposite 
:o Athelstane, and soon showed, that if the dis¬ 
tresses of his country could banish the recollection 
of food while the table was uncovered, yet no sooner 
were the victuals put there, than he proved that the 
appetite of his Saxon ancestors had descended to him 
along with their noble qualities. 

The captives had not long enjoyed their refresh¬ 
ment, however, ere their attention was disturbed 
even from this most serious occupation by the blast 
of a horn winded before the gate. It was repeated 
three times, with as much violence as if it had been 
blown before an enchanted castle by the destined 
knight, at whose summons halls and towers, barbi¬ 
can and battlement, were to roll off like a morning 
vapor. The Saxons started from the table, and has¬ 
tened to the window. But their curiosity was dis¬ 
appointed; for these outlets only looked upon the 
court of the castle, and the sound came from beyond 
its precincts. The summons, however, seemed of 
importance, for a considerable degree of bustle in¬ 
stantly took place in the castle. 



CHAPTER XXII 


My daughter ! O my ducats ! O my daughter ! 

—>-O my Christian ducats! 

Justice! the Law! my ducats, and my daughter! 

Merchant of Venice. 

Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their ban¬ 
quet as soon as their ungratified curiosity should 
permit them to attend to the calls of their half-sati¬ 
ated appetites, we have to look in upon the yet more 
severe imprisonment of Isaac of York. The poor 
Jew had been hastily thrust into a dungeon-vault of 
the castle, the floor of which was deep beneath the 
level of the ground, and very damp, being lower than 
even the moat itself. The only light was received 
through one or two loopholes far above the reach of 
the captive's hand. These apertures admitted, even 
at midday, only a dim and uncertain light, which 
was changed for utter darkness long before the 
rest of the castle had lost the blessing of day. 
Chains and shackles, which had been the portion of 
former captives, from whom active exertions to es¬ 
cape had been apprehended, hung rusted and empty 
on the walls of the prison, and in the rings of one 
of those sets of fetters there remained two molder- 
ing bones, which seemed to have been once those of 
the human leg, as if some prisoner had been left not 
only to perish there, but to be consumed to a skele¬ 
ton. 

At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large 
fire-ygrate, over the top of which were stretched 
some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust. 

The whole appearance of the dungeon might have 

Question : What became of Ivanhoe? 

Question : What is the significance of the three blasts 
from the horn? 




IVANHOE 


279 


appalled a stouter heart than that of Isaac, who, 
nevertheless, was more composed under the immi¬ 
nent pressure of danger, than he had seemed to be 
while affected by terrors, of which the cause was as 
yet remote and contingent. The lovers of the chase 
Isay that the hare feels more agony during the pur¬ 
suit of the greyhounds than when she is struggling 
in their fangs. And thus it is probable that the 
Jews, by the very frequency of their fear on all oc¬ 
casions, had their minds in some degree prepared for 
every effort of tyranny which could be practiced 
upon them; so that no aggression, when it had taken 
place, could bring with it that surprise which is the 
most disabling quality of terror. Neither was it 
the first time that Isaac had been placed in circum¬ 
stances so dangerous. He had therefore experience 
to guide him, as well as hope, that he might again, as 
formerly, be delivered as a prey from the fowler. 
Above all, he had upon his side the unyielding ob¬ 
stinacy of his nation, and that unbending resolution 
with which Israelites have been frequently known 
to submit to the uttermost evils which power and 
violence can inflict upon them, rather than gratify 
their oppressors by granting their demands. 

In this humor of passive resistance, and with his 
garment collected beneath him to keep his limbs 
from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a corner of his 
dungeon, where his folded hands, his disheveled 
hair and beard, his furred cloak and high cap, 
seen by the wiry and broken light, would have af¬ 
forded a study for Rembrandt, 1 had that celebrated 
painter existed at the period. The Jew remained, 
without altering his position, for nearly three hours, 

*A celebrated Dutch painter who was noted for his por¬ 
traits, especially revealing dark settings and striking fea¬ 
tures. 





280 


IVANHOE 


at the expiry of which steps were heard on the dun¬ 
geon stair. The bolts screamed as they were with¬ 
drawn—the hinges creaked as the wicket opened, 
and Reginald Front-de-Bceuf, followed by the two 
Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison. 

Front-de-Bceuf, a tall and strong man, whose life 
had been spent in public war or in private feuds and 
broils, and who had hesitated at no means of extend¬ 
ing his feudal power, had features corresponding to 
his character, and which strongly expressed the 
fiercer and more malignant passions of the mind. 
The scars with which his visage was seamed would, 
on features of a different cast, have excited the 
sympathy and veneration due to the marks of honor¬ 
able valor; but, in the peculiar case of Front-de- 
Bceuf, they only added to the ferocity of his counten¬ 
ance, and to the dread which his presence inspired. 
This formidable baron was clad in a leathern doub¬ 
let, fitted close to his body, which was frayed and 
soiled with the stains of his armor. He had no 
weapon, excepting a poniard at his belt, which served 
to counter-balance the weight of the bunch of rusty 
keys that hung at his right side. 

The black slaves who attended Front-de-Bceuf 
were stripped of their gorgeous apparel, and attired 
in jerkins and trousers of coarse linen, their sleeves 
being tucked up above the elbow, like those of butch¬ 
ers when about to exercise their function in the 
slaughter-house. Each had in his hand a small 
pannier; and, when they entered the dungeon, they 
stopt at the door until Front-de-Bceuf, himself care¬ 
fully locked and double-locked it. Having taken this 
precaution, he advanced slowly up the apartment 
towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his eye fixed, 
as if he wished to paralyze him with his glance, as 
some animals are said to fascinate their prey. It 
seemed indeed as if the sullen and malignant eye 



IVANHOE 


281 


of Front-de-Boeuf possessed some portion of that 
supposed power over his unfortunate prisoner. The 
Jew sate with his mouth a-gape, and his eyes fixed 
on the savage baron with such earnestness of terror, 
that his frame seemed literally to shrink together, 
and to diminish in size while encountering the fierce 
Norman’s fixed and baleful gaze. The unhappy 
Isaac was deprived not only of the power of rising 
to make the obeisance which his terror dictated, but 
| he could not even doff his cap, or utter any word of 
supplication, so strongly was he agitated by the con¬ 
viction that tortures and death were impending over 
him. 

On the other hand, the stately form of the Nor¬ 
man appeared to dilate in magnitude, like that of the 
eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about to 
pounce on its defenseless prey. He paused within 
three steps of the corner in which the unfortunate 
Jew had now, as it were, coiled himself up into the 
smallest possible space, and made a sign for one of 
the slaves to approach. The black satellite came 
forward accordingly, and, producing from his basket 
a large pair of scales and several weights, he laid 
them at the feet of Front-de-Bceuf, and again re¬ 
tired to the respectful distance, at which his com¬ 
panion had already taken his station. 

The motions of these men were slow and solemn, 
as if there impended over their souls some precon¬ 
ception of honor and of cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf 
himself opened the scene by thus addressing his ill- 
fated captive. 

“Most accursed dog of an accursed race,” he said, 
awaking with his deep and sullen voice the sullen 
echoes of his dungeon vault, “seest thou these 
scales?” 

The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative. 

“In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out, 




282 


Ivan hoe 


said the relentless Baron, “a thousand silver pounds, 
after the just measure and weight of the Tower of 
London.” 

“Holy Abraham!” returned the Jew, finding 
voice through the very extremity of his danger, 
“heard man ever such a demand? Who ever heard, 
even in a minstrel’s tale, of such a sum as a thou¬ 
sand pounds of silver? What human sight was ever 
blessed with the vision of such a mass of treasury? 
—Not within the walls of York, ransack my house 
and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the tithe of 
that huge sum of silver that thou speakest of.” 

“I am reasonable,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, 
“and if silver be scant, I refuse not gold. At the 
rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver, 
thou shalt free thy unbelieving carcass from such 
punishment as thy heart has never even conceived.” 

“Have mercy on me, noble knight!” exclaimed 
Isaac; “I am old, and poor, and helpless. It were 
unworthy to triumph over me—It is a poor deed to 
crush a worm.” 

“Old thou mayst be,” replied the knight; “more 
shame to their folly who have suffered thee to grow 
gray in usury and knavery—Feeble thou mayst be, 
for when had a Jew either heart or hand—But rich 
it is well known thou art.” 

“I swear to you, noble knight,” said the Jew, 
“by all which I believe, and by all which we be¬ 
lieve in common—” 

“Perjure not thyself,” said the Norman, inter¬ 
rupting him. “and let not thine obstinacy seal thy 
doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the 
fate that awaits thee. Think not I speak to thee 
only to excite thy terror, and practice on the base 
cowardice thou hast derived from thy tribe. I swear 
to thee by that which thou dost not believe, by the 
gospel which our church teaches, and by the keys 


Ivan hoe 


288 


which are given her to bind and to loose, that my 
purpose is deep and peremptory. This dungeon is no 
place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times 
more distinguished than thou have died within these 
walls, and their fate hath never been known! But 
for thee is reserved a long and lingering death, to 
which theirs were luxury.” 

He again made a signal for the slaves to approach, 
and spoke to them apart, in their own language; for 
he also had been in Palestine, where, perhaps, he 
had learnt his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens pro¬ 
duced from their baskets a quantity of charcoal, a 
pair of bellows, and a flask of oil. While the one 
struck a light with a flint and steel, the other dis¬ 
posed the charcoal in the large rusty grate which we 
have already mentioned, and exercised the bellows 


until the fuel came to a red glow. 

‘Seest thou, Isaac,” said Front-de-Bceuf, 


‘the 

on 


range of iron bars above that glowing charcoal?— 
that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy 
clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down. 
One of these slaves shall maintain the fire beneath 
thee while the other shall anoint thy wretched 
limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn.—Now, 
choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment 
of a thousand, pounds of silver; for, by^the head 
of my father, thou hast no other option.” 

“It is impossible,” exclaimed the miserable Jew— 
“it is impossible that your purpose can be real! 
The good God of nature never made a heart capable 
of exercising such cruelty!” 

“Trust not to that, Isaac,” said Front-de-Bceuf, 
“it were a fatal error. Dost thou think that I, who 
have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my 
Christian countrymen perished by sword, by flood, 
and by fire, will blench from my purpose for the 
outcries or screams of one single wretched Jew? 



284 


Ivan hoe 


or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who 
have neither law, country, nor conscience, but their 
master’s will—who use the poison, or the stake, or 
the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest wink—think¬ 
est thou that they will have mercy, who do not even 
understand the language in which it is asked?—Be 
wise, old man; discharge thyself of a portion of thy 
superfluous wealth; repay to the hands of a Christ¬ 
ian a part of what thou hast acquired by the usury 
thou hast practiced on those of his religion. Thy 
cunning may soon swell out once more thy shriveled 
purse, but neither leech nor medicine can restore 
thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once stretched 
on these bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say, and 
rejoice that at such rate thou canst redeem thee 
from a dungeon, the secrets of which few have re¬ 
turned to tell. I waste no more words with thee— 
choose between thy dross and thy flesh and blood, 
and as thou choosest, so shall it be.” 

“So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of 
our people assist me,” said Isaac. “I cannot make 
the choice, because I have not the means of satis¬ 
fying your exorbitant demand!” 

“Seize him and strip him, slaves,” said the knight, 
“and let the fathers of his race assist him if they 
can.” 

The assistants, taking their directions more from 
the Baron’s eye and his hand than his tongue, once 
more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate 
Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and holding 
him between them, waited the hard-hearted Baron’s 
farther signal. The unhappy Jew eyed their coun¬ 
tenances and that of Front-de-Bceuf, in hope of dis¬ 
covering some symptoms of relenting; but that of 
the Baron exhibited the same cold, half-sullen, half- 
sarcastic smile which had been the prelude to his 
cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens, roll- 


IVANHOE 


285 


ing gloomily under their dark brows, acquiring a yet 
more sinister expression by the whiteness of the 
circle which surrounds the pupil, evinced rather the 
secret pleasure which they expected from the ap¬ 
proaching scene, than any reluctance to be its di¬ 
rectors or agents. The Jew then looked at the glow¬ 
ing furnace, over which he was presently to be 
stretched, and seeing no chance of his tormentor’s 
relenting, his resolution gave way. 

“I will pay,” he said, “the thousand pounds of 
silver—That is,” he added, after a moment’s pause, 
“I will pay it with the help of my brethren; for I 
must beg as a mendicant at the door of our syna¬ 
gogue ere I make up so unheard-of a sum.—When 
and where must it be delivered?” 

“Here,” replied Front-de-Bceuf, “here it must 
be delivered—weighed it must be—weighed and told 
down on this very dungeon floor.—Thinkest thou 
I will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?” 

“And what is to be my surety,” said the Jew, 
“that I shall be at liberty after this ransom is 
paid?” 

“The word of a Norman noble, thou pawnbroking 
slave,” answered Front-de-Boeuf; “the faith of a 
Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold and 
silver of thee and all thy tribe.” 

“I crave pardon, noble lord,” said Isaac, timidly, 
“but wherefore should I rely wholly on the word of 
one who will trust nothing to mine?” 

“Because thou canst not help it, Jew,” said the 
| knight, sternly. “Wert thou now in thy treasure- 
chamber at York, and were I craving a loan of thy 
shekels, it would be thine to dictate the time of pay¬ 
ment, and the pledge of security. This is my treas¬ 
ure-chamber. Here I have thee at advantage,^ nor 
will I again deign to repeat the terms on which I 
grant thee liberty.” 



286 


IVANHOE 


The Jew groaned deeply.—“Grant me,” he said, 
“at least with my own liberty, that of the compan¬ 
ions with whom I travel. They scorned me as a 
Jew, yet they pitied my desolation, and because they 
tarried to aid me by the way, a share of my evil 
hath come upon them; moreover, they may contribute 
in some sort to my ransom/’ 

“If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls,” said 
Front-de-Bceuf, “their ransom will depend upon 
other terms than mine. Mind thine own concerns, 
Jew, I warn thee, and meddle not with those of 
others.” 

“I am, then,” said Isaac, “only to be set at liberty, 
together with mine wounded friend?” 

“Shall I twice recommend it,” said Front-de- 
Bceuf, “to a son of Israel, to meddle with his own 
concerns, and leave those of others alone?—Since 
thou hast made thy choice, it remains but that thou 
payest down thy ransom, and that at a short day.” 

“Yet hear me,” said the Jew—“for the sake of 
that very wealth which thou wouldst obtain at the 
expense of thy”—Here he stopped short, afraid of 
irritating the savage Norman. But Front-de-Bceuf 
only laughed, and himself filled up the blank at 
which the Jew had hesitated. “At the expense of 
my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it 
out—I tell thee, I am reasonable. I can bear the 
reproaches of a loser, even when the loser is a Jew. 
Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst in¬ 
voke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling 
thee a usurious blood-sucker, when thy exactions had 
devoured his patrimony.” 

“I swear by the Talmud,” said the Jew, “that 
your valor has been misled in that matter. Fitz¬ 
dotterel drew his poniard upon me in mine own 
chambers, because I craved him for mine own silver. 
The term of payment was due at the Passover.” 



IVANHOE 


287 


“I care not what he did,” said Front-de-Boeuf; 
“the question is, when shall I have mine own?— 
when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?” 

“Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York,” an¬ 
swered Isaac, “with your safe conduct, noble knight, 
and so soon as man and horse can return, the treas¬ 
ure”—Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the 
pause of a few seconds,—“The treasure shall be told 
down on this very floor.” 

“Thy daughter!” said Front-de-Boeuf, as if sur¬ 
prised,—“By heavens, Isaac, I would I had known 
of this. I deemed that yonder black-browed girl 
had been thy concubine, and I gave her to be a 
handmaiden to Sir Brian de Bois-Gilbert, after the 
fashion of patriarchs and heroes of the days of 
old, who set us in these matters a wholesome ex¬ 
ample.” 

The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling com¬ 
munication made the very vault to ring, and as¬ 
tounded the two Saracens so much that they let go 
their hold of the Jew. He availed himself of his en¬ 
largement to throw himself on the pavement, and 
clasp the knees of Front-de-Bceuf. 

“Take all that you have asked,” said he, “Sir 
Knight—take fen times more—reduce me to ruin 
and to beggary, if thou wilt,—nay, pierce me with 
thy poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare my 
daughter, deliver her in safety and honor!—As thou 
art born of woman spare the honor of a helpless 
maiden—She is the image of my deceased Rachel, 
she is the last of six pledges of her love—Will you 
deprive a widowed husband of his sole remaining 
comfort?—Will you reduce a father to wish that his 
only living child were laid beside her dead mother, 
in the tomb of our fathers?” 

“I would,” said the Norman, somewhat relent- 
ingly* “that I had known of this before* I thought 



288 


IVANHOE 


your race had loved nothing save their money-bags.” 

“Think not so vilely of us, Jews though we be,” 
said Isaac, eager to improve the moment of apparent 
sympathy; “the hunted fox, the tortured wild-cat 
loves its young—the despised and persecuted race of 
Abraham love their children!” 

“Be it so,” said Front-de-Bceuf; “I will believe 
it in future, Isaac, for thy very sake—but it aids us 
not now, I cannot help what has happened, or what 
is to follow; my word is passed to my comrade in 
arms, nor would I break it for ten Jews and Jewesses 
to boot. Besides, why shouldst thou think evil is to 
come to the girl, even if she became Bois-Gilbert’s 
booty?” 

“There will, there must!” exclaimed Isaac, wring¬ 
ing his hands in agony; “when did Templars breathe 
aught but cruelty to men, and dishonor to women!” 

“Dog of an infidel,” said Front-de-Bceuf, with 
sparkling eyes, and not sorry, perhaps, to seize a pre¬ 
text of working himself into a passion, “blaspheme 
not the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, but take 
thought instead to pay me the ransom thou hast 
promised, or woe betide thy Jewish throat!” 

“Robber and villain!” said the Jew, retorting the 
insults of his oppressor with passion, which, how¬ 
ever impotent, he now found it impossible to bridle, 
“I will pay thee nothing—not one silver penny will 
I pay thee, unless my daughter is delivered to me in 
safety and honor!” 

“Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?” said the Nor¬ 
man, sternly—“has thy flesh and blood a charm 
against heated iron and scalding oil?” 

“I care not!” said the Jew, rendered desperate 
by paternal affection; “do thy worst. My daughter 
is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times 
than those limbs which thy-cruelty threatens. No 
silver will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten 


IVANHOE 


289 


down thy avaricious throat—no, not a silver penny 
will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from 
the deep damnation thy whole life has merited! 
Take my life if thou wilt, and say, the Jew, amidst 
his tortures, knew how to disappoint the Christian. 

“We shall see that,” said Front-de-Bceuf; “for 
by the blessed root, which is the abomination of thy 
accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the extremities of fire 
and steel!—Strip him, slaves, and chain him down 
upon the bars.” 

In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man. 
the Saracens had already torn from him his upper 
garment, and were proceeding totally to disrobe 
him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded with¬ 
out the castle, penetrated even to the recesses of the 
dungeon, and immediately after loud voices were 
heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-Bceuf. Un¬ 
willing to be found engaged in his hellish occupa¬ 
tion, the savage Baron gave the slaves a signal to 
restore Isaac’s garments, and, quitting thei dungeon 
with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank Go 
for his own deliverance, or lament over his daugh¬ 
ter’s captivity and probable fate, as his personal or 
parental feelings might prove strongest. 


Question : Why do you have greater respect for Isaac 
here than you did earlier? 




CHAPTER XXIII 


Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
Can no way change you to a milder form, 

I’ll woo you, like a soldier, at arms’ end, 

And love you ’gainst the nature of love, force you. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

The apartment to which the Lady Rowena had 
been introduced was fitted up with some rude at¬ 
tempts at ornament and magnificence, and her being 
placed there might be considered as a peculiar mark 
of respect not offered to the other prisoners. But the 
wife of Front-de-Boeuf, for whom it had been origi¬ 
nally furnished, was long dead, and decay and ne¬ 
glect had impaired the few ornaments with which 
her taste had adorned it. The tapestry hung down 
from the walls in many places, and in others was 
tarnished and faded under the effects of the sun, 
or tattered and decayed by age. Desolate, however, 
as it was, this was the apartment of the castle which 
had been judged most fitting for the accommodation 
of the Saxon heiress; and here she was left to medi¬ 
tate upon her fate, until the actors in this nefarious 
drama had arranged the several parts which each 
of them was to perform. This had been settled in 
a council held by Front-de-Boeuf, De Bracy, and 
the Templar, in which, after a long and warm debate 
concerning the several advantages which each insis¬ 
ted upon deriving from his peculiar share in this 
audacious enterprise, they had at length determined 
the fate of their unhappy prisoners. 

It was about the hour of noon, therefore, when 
De Bracy, for whose advantage the expedition had 
been first planned, appeared to prosecute his views 

Question : Why did Scott Interrupt at this moment in 
the torture of Isaac? 



IVANHOE 


291 


upon the hand and possessions of the Lady Rowena. 
The interval had not entirely been bestowed in 
holding council with his confederates, for De Bracy 
had found leisure to decorate his person with all the 
foppery of the times. His green cassock and vizard 
were now flung aside. His long luxuriant hair 
was trained to flow in quaint tresses down his 
richly furred cloak. His beard was closely shaved, 
his doublet reached to the middle of his leg, and the 
girdle which secured it, and at the same time sup¬ 
ported his ponderous sword, was embroidered and 
embossed with gold work. We have already noticed 
the extravagant fashion of the shoes at this period, 
and the points of Maurice De Bracy’s might have 
challenged the prize of extravagance with the gay¬ 
est, being turned up and twisteid like the horns of a 
ram. Such was the dress of a gallant of the period: 

I and, in the present instance, that effect was aided 
by the handsome person and good demeanor of the 
wearer, whose manners partook alike of the grace of 
a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier. 

He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet, 
garnished with a golden brooch, representing St. 
Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil. With 
this, he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and, as 
she still retained her standing posture, the knight 
! ungloved his right hand, and motioned to conduct 
j her thither. But Rowena declined, by her gesture, 
the proffered compliment, and replied, “If I be in 
the presence of my jailer, Sir Knight—nor will cir¬ 
cumstances allow me to think otherwise—it best be- 
j comes his prisoner to remain standing till she learns 

i her doom.” _ _ i( 

“Alas! fair Rowena,” returned De Bracy you 
are in the presence of your captive, not your jailer; 
and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy must re¬ 
ceive that doom which you fondly expect from him. 




292 


IVANIIOE 


“I know you not, sir,” said the lady, drawing 
herself up with all the pride of offended rank and 
beauty; ‘‘I know you not—and the insolent familiar¬ 
ity with which you apply to me the jargon of a trou¬ 
badour forms no apology for the violence of a robber.” 

“To thyself, fair maid,” answered De Bracy, in 
his former tone—“to thine own charms be ascribed 
whate’er I have done which passed the respect due 
to her, whom I have chosen queen of my heart, and 
loadstar of my eyes.” 

“I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you not, 
and that no man wearing chain and spurs ought thus 
to intrude himself upon the presence of an unpro¬ 
tected lady.” 

“That I am unknown to you,” said De Bracy, “is 
indeed my misfortune; yet let me hope that De 
B racy’s name has not been always unspoken, when 
minstrels or heralds have praised deeds of chivalry, 
whether in the lists or in the battle-field.” 

“To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy 
praise, Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “more suiting 
for their mouths than for thine own; and tell me 
which of them shall record in song, or in book of 
tourney, the memorable conquest of this night, a 
conquest obtained over an old man, followed by a 
few timid hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate 
maiden, transported against her will to the castle of 
a robber?” 

“You are unjust, Lady Rowena,” said the knight, 
biting his lips in some confusion, and speaking in a 
tone more natural to him than that of aifected gal- 
antry, which he had at first adopted; “yourself free 
from passion, you can allow no excuse for the frenzy 
rj£ another, although caused by your own beauty.” 

“I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Rowena, “to cease 
a language so commonly used by strolling minstrels, 
that it becomes not the mouth of knights or nobles. 


Ivan hoe 


293 


Certes, you constrain me to sit down, since you en¬ 
ter upon such commonplace terms, of which each vile 
crowder' hath a stock that might last from hence to 
Christmas.” 

“Proud damsel,” said De Bracy, incensed at find¬ 
ing his gallant style procured him nothing but con¬ 
tempt—“proud damsel, thou shalt be as proudly en¬ 
countered. Know then, that I have supported my 
pretensions to your hand in the way that best suited 
thy character. It is meeter for thy humor to be 
wooed with bow and bill, than in set terms, and in 
courtly language.” 

“Courtesy of tongue,” said Rowena, “when it is 
used to veil churlishness of deed, is but a knight’s 
girdle around the breast of a base clown. I wonder 
not that the restraint appears to gall you—more it 
were for your honor to have retained the dress and 
I language of an outlaw, than to veil the deeds of one 
under an affectation of gentle language and demean¬ 
or.” 

“You counsel well, lady,” said the Norman; “and 
in the bold language which best justifies bold action, 
I tell thee, thou shalt never leave this castle, or thou 
shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy’s wife. I am not 
! wont to be baffled in my enterprises, nor needs a Nor- 
t man noble scrupulously to vindicate his conduct to 
the Saxon maiden whom he distinguishes by the offer 
! of his hand. Thou art proud, Rowena, and thou art 
the fitter to be my wife. By what other means couldst 
thou be raised to high honor and to princely place, 
saving by my “alliance? How else wouldst thou es- 
1 cape from the mean precincts of a country grange, 

| where Saxons herd with the swine which form their 
wealth, to take thy seat, honored as thou shouldst be, 

a Player upon the “crowd,” an ancient instrument .much 

like a violin. 






294 


IVANHOE 


and shalt be, amid all in England that is distin¬ 
guished by beauty, or dignified by power?” 

“Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “the grange which 
you contemn hath been my shelter from infancy; and, 
trust me, when I leave it—should that day ever ar¬ 
rive—it shall be with one who has not learnt to 
despise the dwelling and manners in which I have 
been brought up.” 

“I guess your meaning, lady,” said De Bracy, 
“though you may think it lies too obscure for my 
apprehension. But dream not, that Richard Coeur- 
de-Lion will ever resume his throne, far less that 
Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever lead thee to 
his footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride of a 
favorite. Another suitor might feel jealousy while 
he touched this string; but my firm purpose cannot 
be changed by a passion so childish and so hopeless. 
Know, lady, that this rival is in my power, and that 
it rests but with me to betray the secret of his being 
within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy 
will be more fatal than mine.” 

“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is 
as true as that Front-de-Boeuf is his rival.” 

De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant. 
“Wert thou really ignorant of this?” said he; “didst 
thou not know that Wilfred of Ivanhoe traveled in 
the litter of the Jew?—a meet conveyance for the 
crusader, whose doughty arm was to reconquer the 
Holy Sepulcher!” And he laughed scornfully. 

“And if he is here,” said Rowena, compelling her¬ 
self to a tone of indifference, though trembling with 
an agony of apprehension which she could not sup¬ 
press, “in what is he the rival of Front-de-Boeuf? or 
what has he to fear beyond a short imprisonment, 
and an honorable ransom, according to the use of 
chivalry?” 

“Rowena,” said De Bracy, “art thou, too, deceived 


IVANHOE 


295 


by the common error of thy sex, who think there 
can be no rivalry but that respecting their own 
charms? Knowest thou not there is a jealousy of 
ambition and of wealth, as well as of love; and that 
this our host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push from his 
road him who opposes his claim to the fair barony 
of Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and unscrupulously, 

; as if he were preferred to him by some blue-eyed 
damsel? But smile on my suit, lady, and the wounded 
! champion shall have nothing to fear from Front-de- 
Boeuf, whom else thou mayst mourn for as in the 
hands of one who has never shown compassion.” 

“Save him, for the love of Heaven!” said Rowena, 
her firmness giving way under terror for her lover’s 
impending fate. 

“I can—I will—it is my purpose,” said De Bracy; 
“for, when Rowena consents to be the bride of De 
Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth a violent 
hand upon her kinsman—the son of her guardian— 
the companion of her youth? But it is thy love must 
buy his protection. I am not romantic fool enough to 
further the fortune, or avert the fate, of one who 
is likely to be a successful obstacle between me and 
my wishes. Use thine influence with me in his be¬ 
half, and he is safe,—refuse to employ it, Wilfred 
dies, and thou thyself art not the nearer to freedom.” 

“Thy language,” answered Rowena, “hath in its 
indifferent bluntness something which cannot be recon¬ 
ciled with the horrors it seems to express. I be¬ 
lieve not that thy purpose is so wicked, or thy pow¬ 
er so great.” 

“Flatter thyself, then, with that belief,” said De 
Bracy, “until time shall prove it false. Thy lover 
lies wounded in this castle—thy preferred lover. He 


Question: What made Rowena lose her courage when 

she had been brave at the entrance of De Bracy ? 




296 


IVANHOE 


is a bar betwixt Front-de-Boeuf and that which Front- 
de-Boeuf loves better than either ambition or beauty. 
What will it cost beyond the blow of a poniard, or 
the thrust of a javelin, to silence his opposition for¬ 
ever? Nay, were Front-de-Bceuf afraid to justify 
a deed so open, let the leech but give his patient 
a wrong draught—let the chamberlain, or the nurse 
who tends him, but pluck the pillow from his head, 
and Wilfred, in his present condition, is sped with¬ 
out the effusion of blood. Cedric also—” 

“And Cedric also,” said Rowena, repeating his 
words; “my noble—my generous guardian! I de¬ 
served the evil I have encountered, for forgetting his 
fate even in that of his son!” 

“Cedric’s fate also depends upon thy determina¬ 
tion,” said De Bracy; “and I leave thee to form it.” 

Hitherto, Rowena had sustained her part in this 
trying scene with undismayed courage, but it was 
because she had not considered the danger as serious 
and imminent. Her disposition was naturally that 
which physiognomists consider as proper to fair com¬ 
plexions, mild,, timid, and gentle; but it had been 
tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by the circum¬ 
stances of her education. Accustomed to see the will 
of all, even of Cedric himself, (sufficiently arbitrary 
with others,) give way before her wishes, she had 
acquired that sort of courage and self-confidence 
which arises from the habitual and constant defer¬ 
ence of the circle in which we move. She could scarce 
conceive the possibility of her will being opposed, far 
less that of its being treated with total disregard. 

Her haughtiness and habit of domination was, 
therefore, a fictitious character, induced over that 
which was natural to her, and it deserted her when 
her eyes were opened to the extent of her own danger, 
as well as that of her lover and her guardian; and 
when she found her will, the slightest expression of 


IVANHOE 


297 


which was wont to command respect and attention, 
now placed in opposition to that of a man of a strong, 
fierce, and determined mind, who possessed the ad¬ 
vantage over her, and was resolved to use it, she 
quailed before him. 

After casting her eyes around, as if to look for the 
aid which was nowhere to be found, and after a few 
broken interjections, she raised her hands to heaven, 
and burst into a passion of uncontrolled vexation 
and sorrow. It was impossible to see so beautiful 
a creature in such extremity without feeling for her, 
and De Bracy was not unmoved, though he was yet 
more embarrassed than touched. He had, in truth, 
gone too far to recede; and yet, in Rowena’s present 
condition, she could not be acted on either by argu¬ 
ment or threats. He paced the apartment to and 
fro, now vainly exhorting the terrified maiden to 
compose herself, now hesitating concerning his own 
line of conduct. 

“If,” thought he, “I should be moved by the tears 
and sorrow of this disconsolate damsel, what should 
I reap but the loss of those fair hopes for which I 
have encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of 
Prince John and his jovial comrades? And yet,” he 
said to himself, “I feel myself ill framed for the part 
which I am playing. I cannot look on so fair a face 
while it is disturbed with agony, or on those eyes 
when they are drowned in tears. I would she had re¬ 
tained her original haughtiness of disposition, or that 
I had a larger share of Front-de-Bceuf’s thrice tem¬ 
pered hardness of heart!” 

Agitated by these thoughts, he could only bid the 
unfortunate Rowena be comforted, and assure her, 
that as yet she had no reason for the excess of de¬ 
spair to which she was now giving way. But in this 
task of consolation De Bracy was interrupted by 
the horn, “hoarse-winded blowing far and keen,” 



298 


IVANHOE 


which had at the same time alarmed the other in¬ 
mates of the castle, and interrupted their several 
plans of avarice and of license. Of them all, perhaps, 
De Bracy least regretted the interruption; for his 
conference with the Lady Rowena had arrived at a 
point where he found it equally difficult to prosecute 
or to resign his enterprise. 

And here we cannot but think it necessary to offer 
some better proof than the incidents of an idle tale, 
to vindicate the melancholy representation of man¬ 
ners which has been just laid before the reader. It 
is grievous to think that those valiant barons, to 
whose stand against the crown the liberties of Eng¬ 
land were indebted for their existence, should them-' 
selves have been such dreadful oppressors, and ca¬ 
pable of excesses contrary not only to the laws of Eng¬ 
land, but to those of nature and humanity. But, 
alas! we have only to extract from the industrious 
Henry one of those numerous passages which he has 
collected from contemporary historians, to prove that 
fiction itself can hardly reach the dark reality of the 
horrors of the period. 

The description given by the author of the Saxon 
Chronicle of the cruelties exercised in the reign of 
King Stephen by the great barons and lords of castles, 
who were all Normans, affords a strong proof of the 
excesses of which they were capable when their pas¬ 
sions were inflamed. “They grievously oppressed the 
poor people by building castles; and when they were 
built, they filled them with wicked men, or rather 
devils, who seized both men and women who they 
imagined had any money, threw them into prison, 
and put them to more cruel tortures than the martyrs 
ever endured. They suffocated some in mud, and sus- 


Question: What is the meaning of the blowing of the 

horn? 



IVANHOE 


299 


I pended others by the feet, or the head, or the thumbs, 
j kindling fires below them. They squeezed the heads of 
i some with knotted cords till they pierced their brains, 

; while they threw others into dungeons swarming with 
serpents, snakes, and toads.” But it would be cruel 
to put the reader to the pain of perusing the remain¬ 
der of this description. 

As another instance of these bitter fruits of con¬ 
quest, and perhaps the strongest that can be quoted, 
we may mention that the Empress Matilda, though 
a daughter of the King of Scotland, and afterwards 
both Queen of England and Empress of Germany, 
the daughter, the wife, and the mother of monarchs, 
was obliged, during her early residence for education 
in England, to assume the veil of a nun, as the only 
means of escaping the licentious pursuit of the Nor¬ 
man nobles. This excuse she stated before a great 
council of the clergy of England, as the sole reason 
for her having taken the religious habit. The as¬ 
sembled clergy admitted the validity of the plea, and 
the notoriety of the circumstances upon which it was 
founded, giving thus an indubitable and most re¬ 
markable testimony to the existence of that disgrace¬ 
ful license by which that age was stained. It was a 
matter of public knowledge, they said, that after the 
conquest of King William, his Norman followers, 
elated by so great a victory, acknowledged no law 
but their own wicked pleasure, and not only despoiled 
the conquered Saxons of their lands and their goods, 
but invaded the honor of their wives and of their 
daughters with the most unbridled license; and 
hence it was then common for matrons and maidens 
of noble families to assume the veil, and take shelter 
in convents,, not as called thither by the vocation of 
God, but solely to preserve their honor from the un¬ 
bridled wickedness of man. 

Such and so licentious were the times, as an- 





300 


Ivan hoe 


nounced by the public declaration of the assembled 
clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add nothing 
more to vindicate the probability of the scenes which 
we have detailed, and are about to detail, upon the 
more apocryphal authority of the Wardour MS. 


CHAPTER XXIV 

I’ll woo her as the lion woos his bride. 

Douglas. 

While the scenes we have described were passing 
in other parts of the castle, the Jewess Rebecca 
awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret. 
Hither she had been led by two of her disguised rav- 
ishers, and on being thrust into the little cell, she 
found herself in the presence of an old sibyl, who 
kept murmuring to herself a Saxon rhyme, as if to 
beat time to the revolving dance which her spindle 
was performing upon the floor. The hag raised her 
head as Rebecca entered, and scowled at the fair 
Jewess with the malignant envy with which old age 
and ugliness, when united with evil conditions, are 
apt to look upon youth and beauty. 

“Thou must up and away, old house-cricket.” said 
one of the men; “our noble master commands it— 

| Thou must e’en leave this chamber to a fairer guest.” 

“Ay,” grumbled the hag, “even thus is service re¬ 
quitted. I have known when my bare word would 
have cast the best man-at-arms among ye out of sad- 
| die and out of service; and now must I up and away 
at the command of every groom such as thou.” 

“Good Dame Urfried,” said the other man, “stand 
not to reason on it, but up and away. Lords’ hests 
must be listened to with a quick ear. Thou hast had 
thy day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. 
Thou art now the very emblem of an old war-horse 
turned out on the barren heath—thou hast had thy 
paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best 
of them—Come, amble off with thee.” 

“Ill omens dog ye both!” said the old woman; “and 
a kennel be your burying-place! May the evil demon 
! 2ernebock tear me limb from limb, if I leave my 



302 


IVANHOE 


own cell ere I have spun out the hemp on my distaff!” 

“Answer it to our lord, then, old house-fiend,” said 
the man, and retired, leaving Rebecca in company 
with the old woman, upon whose presence she had 
been thus unwillingly forced. 

“What devil’s deed have they now in the wind?” j 
said the bid hag, murmuring to herself, yet from time 
to time casting a sidelong and malignant glance at 
Rebecca; “but it is easy to guess—Bright eyes, black 
locks, and a skin like paper, ere the priest stains it 
with his black unguent—Ay, it is easy to guess why 
they send her to this lone turret, whence a shriek 
could no more be heard than at the depth of five hun¬ 
dred fathoms beneath the earth.—Thou wilt have owls 
for thy neighbor, fair one; and their screams will be E 
heard as far, and as much regarded, as thine own. ! 
Outlandish, too,” she said, marking the dress and 
turban of Rebecca—“What country art thou of?—a 
Saracen? or an Egyptian—Why dost not answer?— 1 
thou canst weep,, canst thou not speak?” 

“Be not angry, good mother,” said Rebecca. 

“Thou needst say no more,” replied Urfried; “men 
know a fox by the train and a Jewess by her tongue.” 

“For the sake of mercy,” said Rebecca, “tell me | 
what I am to expect as the conclusion of the violence ! 
which hath dragged me hither! Is it my life they 
seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay it down 
cheerfully.” 

“Thy life, minion!” answered the sibyl; “what 
would taking thy life pleasure them?—Trust me, thy 
life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou have as 
was once thought good enough for a noble Saxon 
maiden. And shall a Jewess, like thee, repine be¬ 
cause she hath no better? Look at me—I was as 
young and twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Boeuf, 
father of this Reginald, and his Normans, stormed 
this castle. My father and his seven sons defended 




IVANHOE 


303 


heir inheritance from story to story, from chamber 
P chamber—There was not a room, not a step of the 
fairs, that was not slippery with their blood. They 
ied—they died every man; and ere their bodies were 
old, and ere their blood was dried, I had become the 
rey and the scorn of the conqueror!” 

“Is there no help?—Are there no means of escape?” 
aid Rebecca—“Richly, richly would I requite thine 
lid.” 

“Think not of it,” said the hag; “from hence there 
5 no escape but through the gates of death; and it 
5 late, late,” she added, shaking her gray head, “ere 
hese open to us—Yet it is comfort to think that we 
lave behind us on earth those who shall be wretched 
s ourselves. Fare thee well, Jewess!—Jew or Gen- 
ile, thy fate would be the same; for thou hast to do 
/ith them that have neither scruple nor pity. Fare 
hee well, I say. My thread is spun out—thy task 
5 yet to begin.” 

“Stay! stay! for Heaven’s sake!” said Rebecca; 
stay, though it be to curse and to revile me—thy 
resence is yet some protection.” 

“The presence of the mother of God were no pro- 
ection,” answered the old woman. “There she 
itands,” pointing to a rude image of the Virgin 
Jary, “see if she can avert the fate that awaits thee.” 

She left the room as she spoke, her features writhed 
nfo a sort of sneering laugh, which made them seem 
wen more hideous than their habitual frown. She 
3 cked the door behind her, and Rebecca might hear 
fer curse every step for its steepness, as slowly and 
jrith difficulty she descended the turret-stair. 

Rebecca was now to expect a fate even more dread- 
ul than that of Rowena; for what probability was 
here that either softness or ceremony would be used 
owards one of her oppressed race, whatever shadow 
if those might be preserved towards a Saxon heiress? 



304 


Ivan hoe 


Yet had the Jewess this advantage, that she was 
better prepared by habits of thought, and by natural 
strength of mind, to encounter the dangers to which 
she was exposed. Of a strong and observing charac¬ 
ter, even from her earliest years, the pomp and wealth 
which her father displayed within his walls, or which 
she witnessed in the houses of other wealthy He¬ 
brews, had not been able to blind her to the precari¬ 
ous circumstances under which they were enjoyed. 
Like Damocles at his celebrated banquet, Rebecca 
perpetually beheld, amid that georgeous display, the 
sword which was suspended over the heads of her 
people by a single hair. These reflections had tamed 
and brought down to a pitch of sounder judgment a 
temper, which under other circumstances, might 
have waxed haughty, supercilious, and obstinate. 

From her father’s examples and injunctions, Re¬ 
becca had learnt to bear herself courteously towards 
all who approached her. She could not indeed imi¬ 
tate his excess of subservience, because she was a 
stranger to the meanness of mind, and to the constant 
state of timid apprehension, by which it was dictated ; 
but she bore herself with a proud humility, as if sub¬ 
mitting to the evil circumstances in which she was 
placed as the daughter of a despised race, while she 
felt in her mind the consciousness that she was en¬ 
titled to hold a higher rank from her merit, than the 
arbitrary despotism of religious prejudice permitted 
her to aspire to. 

Thus prepared to expect adverse circumstances, 
she had acquired the firmness necessary for acting 
under them. Her present situation required all her 


a See Greek mythology. Dionysius I, of Syracuse placec 
Damocles at a banquet beneath a sword suspended by i 
hair, because Damocles had praised the happiness of kings 








IVANHOE 


305 


presence of mind, and she summoned it up accord¬ 
ingly. 

I Her first care was to inspect the apartment; but 
;it afforded few hopes either of escape or protection. 
It contained neither secret passage nor trap-door, and 
unless where the door by which she had entered 
joined the main building, seemed to be circumscribed 
by the round exterior wall of the turret. The door 
had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened 
upon an embattled space surmounting the turret, 
which gave Rebecca, at first sight, some hopes of es¬ 
caping; but she soon found it had no communication 
with any other part of the battlements,, being an iso¬ 
lated bartizan, or balcony,, secured, as usual, by 
a parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers 
imight be stationed for defending the turret, and 
flanking with their shot the wall of the castle on that 
side. 

There was therefore no hope but in passive forti¬ 
tude, and in that strong reliance on Heaven natural 
to great and generous characters. Rebecca, however 
erroneously taught to interpret the promises of 
Scripture to the chosen people of Heaven, did not 
err in supposing the present to be their hour of trial, 
or in trusting that the children of Zion would be 
one day called in with the fullness of the Gentiles. 
In the meanwhile, all around her showed that their 
(present state was that of punishment and probation, 
and that it was their especial duty to suffer without 
sinning. Thus prepared to consider herself as the 
victim of misfortune, Rebecca had early reflected 
upon her own state, and schooled her mind to meet 
the dangers which she had probably to encounter. 

The prisoner trembled,, however, and changed 
color, when a step was heard on the stair, and the 
door of the turret-chamber slowly opened, and a tall 
man, dressed as one of those banditti to whom they 




306 


IVANHOE 


owed their misfortune, slowly entered, and shut the 
door behind him; his cap, pulled down upon his 
brows, concealed the upper part of his face, and he 
held his mantle in such a manner as to muffle the rest. 
In this guise, as if prepared for the execution of some 
deed, at the thought of which he was himself 
ashamed, he stood before the affrighted prisoner; yet, 
ruffian as his dress bespoke him, he seemed at a loss 
to express what purpose had brought him thither, so 
that Rebecca, making an effort upon herself, had time 
to anticipate his explanation. She had already un¬ 
clasped two costly bracelets and a collar, which she 
hastened to proffer to the supposed outlaw, con¬ 
cluding naturally that to gratify his avarice was to 
bespeak his favor. 

“Take these,” she said, “good friend, and for 
God’s sake be merciful to me and my aged father! 
These ornaments are of value, yet are they trifling 
to what he would bestow to obtain our dismissal from 
this castle, free and uninjured.” 

“Fair flower of Palestine,” replied the outlaw, 
“these pearls are orient, but they yield in whiteness 
to your teeth; the diamonds are brilliant, but they 
cannot match your eyes; and ever since I have taken 
up this wild trade, I have made a vow to prefer 
beauty to wealth.” 

“Do not do yourself such wrong,” said Rebecca, 
“take ransom, and have mercy!—God will purchase 
your pleasure,—to misuse us, could only bring thee 
remorse. My father will willingly satiate thy utmost 
wishes; and if thou wilt act wisely, thou mayst pur¬ 
chase with our spoils thy restoration to civil society 
—mayst obtain pardon for past errors, and be placed 
beyond the necessity of committing more.” 

“It is well spoken,” replied the outlaw in French, 
finding it difficult probably to sustain, in Saxon, a 
conversation which Rebecca had opened in that lan- 


IVANHOE 


307 


guage; “but know, bright lily of the vale of Baca! 1 
that thy father is already in the hands of a powerful 
alchemist, who knows how to convert into gold and 
silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate. The 
venerable Isaac is subjected to an alembic, which will 
distill from him all he holds dear, without any assist¬ 
ance from my requests, or thy entreaty. Thy ran¬ 
som must be paid by love and beauty, and in no other 
coin will I accept it.” 

“Thou art no outlaw,” said Rebecca, in the same 
language in which he addressed her; “no outlaw 
had refused such offers. No outlaw in this land uses 
the dialect in which thou hast spoken. Thou art no 
outlaw, but a Norman—a Norman, noble perhaps in 
birth—0, be so in thy actions, and cast off this fear¬ 
ful mask of outrage and violence!” 

“And thou, who canst guess so truly,” said Brian 
de Bois-Gilbert, dropping the mantle from his face, 
“art no true daughter of Israel, but in all, save 
youth and beauty, a very witch of Endor. 2 I am not 
an outlaw, then, fair rose of Sharon. And I am one 
who will be more prompt to hang thy neck and arms 
with pearls and diamonds, which so well become 
them, than to deprive thee of these ornaments.” 

“What wouldst thou have of me,” said Rebecca, 
“if not my wealth?—We can have naught in com¬ 
mon between us—you are a Christian—I am a Jew¬ 
ess.—Our union were contrary to the laws, alike of 
the church and the synagogue.” 

“It were so, indeed,” replied the Templar, laugh¬ 
ing “wed with a Jewess? Desyardieux! Not if 
she were the Queen of Sheba! And know, besides, 
sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian 


’Psalms LXXXIV, 6. 

’I Samuel XXVIII, 7-25. 



308 


IVANHOE 


king to offer me his most Christian daughter, with 
Languedoc, for a dowry, I could not wed her. It is 
against my vow to love any maiden, otherwise than 
par amours, as I will love thee. I am a Templar. 
Behold the cross of my Holy Order.” 

“Darest thou appeal to it,” said Rebecca, “on an 
occasion like the present?” 

“And if I do so,” said the Templar, “it concerns 
not thee, who’ art no believer in the blessed sign of 
our salvation.” 

“I believe as my fathers taught,” said Rebecca; 
“and may God forgive my belief if erroneous! But 
you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal 
without scruple to that which you deem most holy, 
even while you are about to transgress the most 
solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a man of 
religion?” 

“It is gravely and well preached, 0 daughter of 
Sirach!” answered the Templar; “but, gentle Eccle- 
siastica, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make thee 
blind to our high privileges. Marriage were an 
enduring crime on the part of a Templar; but 
what lesser folly I may practice, I shall speedily be 
absolved from at the next Preceptory of our Order. 
Not the wisest of monarchs, not his father, whose 
examples you must needs allow are weighty, claimed 
wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the Temple 
of Zion have won by our zeal in its defense. The 
protectors of Solomon’s Temple may claim license by 
the example of Solomon.” 

“If thou readest the Scripture,” said the Jewess, 
“and the lives of the saints, only to justify thine own 
license and profligacy, thy crime is like that of him 
who extracts poison from the most healthful and nec¬ 
essary herbs.” 

The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this re¬ 
proof.—“Hearken,” he said, “Rebecca; I have 


IVANHOE 


309 


i 

hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my language 
shall be that of a conqueror. Thou art the captive of 
my bow and spear—subject to my will by the laws of 
all nations; nor will I abate an inch of my right, or 
abstain from taking by violence what thou refusest 
to entreaty or necessity/’ 

“Stand back,” said Rebecca—“stand back, and 
hear me ere thou offerest to commit a sin so deadly! 
My strength thou mayst indeed overpower, for God 
made women weak, and trusted their defense to 
man’s generosity. But I will proclaim thy villainy, 

| Templar, from one end of Europe to the other. I 
will owe to the superstition of thy brethren what 
their compassion might refuse me. Each Preceptory 
—each Chapter of thy Order, shall learn, that, like 
; a heretic, thou hast sinned with a Jewess. Those 
| who tremble not at thy crime, will hold thee ac¬ 
cursed for having so far dishonored the cross thou 
wearest, as to follow a daughter of my people.” 

“Thou are keen-witted, Jewess,” replied the Tem¬ 
plar, well aware of the truth of what she spoke, and 
that the rules of his Order condemned in the most 
positive manner, and under high penalties, such 
intrigues as he now prosecuted, and that, in some 
instances, even degradation had followed upon it— 
“thou art sharp-witted,” he said; “but loud must be 
thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond the iron 
walls of this castle; within these, murmurs, laments, 
appeals to justice, and screams for help, die alike 
silent away. One thing only can save thee, Rebecca. 
Submit to thy fate—embrace our religion, and thou 
shalt go forth in such state, that many a Norman 
lady shall yield as well in pomp as in beauty to the 
favorite of the best lance among the defenders of the 
Temple.” 

“Submit to my fate!” said Rebecca—“and, sa¬ 
cred Heaven! to what fate?—embrace thy religion! 




310 


IVANHOE 


and what religion can it be that harbors such a vil¬ 
lain ?—thou the best lance of the Templars!—Craven 
knight!—forsworn priest! I spit at thee, and I defy 
thee.—The God of Abraham’s promise hath opened 
an escape to his daughter—even from this abyss of 
infamy!” 

As she spoke, she threw open the lattice window 
which led to the bartizan, and in an instant after, 
stood on the very verge of the parapet, with not the 
slightest screen between her and the tremendous 
depth below. Unprepared for such a desperate effort, 
for she had hitherto stood perfectly motionless, Bois- 
Guilbert had neither time to intercept nor to stop 
her. As he offered to advance,, she exclaimed, “Re¬ 
main where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice 
advance!—one foot nearer, and I plunge myself 
from the precipice, my body shall be crushed out of 
the very form of humanity upon the stones of that 
courtyard, ere it become the victim of thy brutal¬ 
ity!” 

As she spoke this, she elapsed her hands and ex¬ 
tended them towards Heaven, as if imploring mercy 
on her soul before she made the final plunge. The 
Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had never 
yielded to pity or distress, gave way to his admiration 
of her fortitude. “Come down,” he said, “rash 
girl!—I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will 
offer thee no offense.” 

“I will not trust thee. Templar,” said Rebecca; 
“thou hast taught me better how to estimate the 
virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory would 
grant thee absolution for an oath, the keeping of 
which concerned naught but the honor or the dis¬ 
honor of a miserable Jewish maiden.” 

“You do me injustice,” exclaimed the Templar, 
fervently; “I swear to you by the name which I 
bear—by the cross on my bosom—by the sword on 




IVANHOE 


311 


my side—by the ancient crest of my fathers do I 
swear, I will do thee no injury whatsoever! If not 
for thyself, yet for thy father’s sake forbear! I 
will be his friend, and in this castle he will need a 
powerful one.” 

“Alas!” said Rebecca, “I know it but too well— 
dare I trust thee?” 

“May my arms be reversed, and my name dis¬ 
honored,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, “if thou 
shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law, 
many a commandment have I broken, but my word 
never.” 

“I will then trust thee,” said Rebecca, “thus 
far;” and she descended from the verge of the battle¬ 
ment. but remained standing close by one of the em¬ 
brasures, or machicolles, as they were then called.— 
“nere," sne said, **i take my stand. Remain where 
thou art, and if thou shalt attempt to diminish 
by one step the distance now between us, thou 
shalt see that the Jewish maiden will rather trust 
her soul with God, than her honor to the Templar!” 

While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm re¬ 
solve which corresponded so well with the expressive 
beauty of her countenance, gave to her looks, air, and 
manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. 
Her glance quailed not, her cheek blanched not for 
the fear of a fate so instant and so horrible; on the 
contrary,, the thought that she had her fate at her 
command, and could escape at will from infamy to 
death, gave a yet deeper color of carnation to her 
complexion, and a yet more brilliant fire to her eye. 
Bois-Guilbert, proud himself and high-spirited, 
thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and 
so commanding. 

“Let there be peace between us, Rebecca,” he said. 

“Peace, if thou wilt,” answered Rebecca—“peace 

—but with this space between,” 



312 


Ivan hoe 


“Thou needst no longer fear me,” said Bois- 
Guilbert. 

“I fear thee not,” replied she, “thanks to him 
that reared this dizzy tower so high, that naught 
could fall from it and live—thanks to him, and to 
the God of Israel!—I fear thee not.” 

“Thou dost me injustice,” said the Templar; 
“by earth, sea, and sky, thou dost me injustice! 1 
am not naturally that which you have seen me, hard, 
selfish, and relentless. It was woman that taught 
me cruelty, and on woman therefore I have exer¬ 
cised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear me, Re¬ 
becca.—Never did knight take lance in his hand with 
a heart more devoted to the lady of his love than 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She, the daughter of a 
petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but 
a ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and 
some few leagues of the barren Landes of Bordeaux, 
her name was known wherever deeds of arms were 
done, known wider than that of many a lady’s that 
had a county for a dowry.—Yes,” he continued, 
pacing up and down the little platform, with an ani¬ 
mation in which he seemed to lose all consciousness of 
Rebecca’s presence—“Yes, my deeds, my danger, my 
blood, made the name of Adelaide de Montemare 
known from the court of Castle to that of Byzantium. 1 
And how was I requited?—When I returned with 
my dear-bought honors, purchased by toil and blood, 
I found her wedded to a Gascon squire, whose name 
was never heard beyond the limits of his own paltry 
domain! Truly did I love her, and bitterly did I 
revenge me of her broken faith! But my vengeance 
has recoiled on myself. Since that day I have sepa¬ 
rated myself from life and its ties—My manhood 

1 From Spain to Constantinople. 

■A native of Glascony, a French province. 



IVANHOE 


313 


must know no domestic home—must be soothed by 
no affectionate wife—My age must know no kindly 
hearth—My grave must be solitary, and no offspring 
must outlive me, to bear the ancient name of Bois- 
Guilbert. At the feet of my Superior I have laid 
down the right of self-action—the privilege of inde¬ 
pendence. The Templar, a serf in all but the name, 
can possess neither lands nor goods, and lives, moves, 
and breathes, but at the will and pleasure of another.” 

“Alas!” said Rebecca, “what advantages could 
compensate for such an absolute sacrifice?” 

“The power of vengeance, Rebecca,” replied the 
Templar, “and the prospects of ambition.” 

“An evil recompense,” said Rebecca, “for the 
surrender of the rights which are dearest to human¬ 
ity.” 

“Say not so, maiden,” answered the Templar; 
“revenge is a feast for the gods! And if they have 
reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is be¬ 
cause they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the 
possession of mere mortals.—And ambition. ? It is 
a temptation which could disturb even the bliss of 
heaven itself.”—He paused a moment, and then 
added, “Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dis¬ 
honor, must have a proud and a powerful soul. Mine 
thou must be!—Nay, start not,” he added, “it must 
be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. 
Thou must consent to share with me hopes more ex¬ 
tended than can be viewed from the throne of a mon¬ 
arch!—Hear me ere you answer, and judge ere you 
refuse.—The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his 
social rights, his power of free agency, but he be¬ 
comes a member and a limb of a mighty body, before 
which thrones already tremble,—even as the single 
drop of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an 
individual part of that resistless ocean, which under¬ 
mines rocks and engulfs royal armadas. Such a 





314 


IVANHOE 


swelling flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty 
Order I am no mean member, but already one of the 
Chief Commanders,, and may well aspire one day to 
hold the batoon of Grand Master. The poor soldiers 
of the Temple will not alone place their foot upon 
the necks of kings—a hemp-sandal’d monk can do 
that. Our mailed step shall ascend their throne— 
our gauntlet shall wrench the scepter from their 
gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected Mes¬ 
siah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my 
ambition may aim at. 1 have sought but a kindred 
spirit to share it, and I have found such in thee.” 

“Sayest thou this to one of my people?” an¬ 
swered Rebecca. “Bethink thee—” 

“Answer me not,” said the Templar, “by urging 
the difference of our creeds; within our secret con¬ 
claves we hold these nursery tales in derision. Think 
not we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of 
our founders,, who forswore every delight of life for 
the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, 
and by pestilence, and by the swords of savages, 
while they vainly strove to defend a barren desert, 
valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order 
soon adopted bolder and wider views, and found out 
a better indemnification for our sacrifices. Our im¬ 
mense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our 
high military fame, which brings within our circle 
the flower of chivalry from every Christian clime— 
these are dedicated to ends of which our pious foun¬ 
ders little dreamed, and which are equally concealed 
from such weak spirits as embrace our Order on 
the ancient principles, and whose superstition makes 
them our passive tools. But I will not further with¬ 
draw the veil of our mysteries. That bugle-sound an¬ 
nounces something which may require my presence. 
Think on what I have said.—Farewell!—I do not 
say forgive me the violence I have threatened, for it 


IVANHOE 


315 


was necessary to the display of thy character. Gold 
can be only known by the application of the touch¬ 
stone. I will soon return, and hold further con¬ 
ference with thee.” 

| He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended 
the stair, leaving Rebecca scarcely more terrified at 
the prospect of the death to which she had been so 
lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the 
bold bad man in whose power she found herself so 
unhappily placed. When she entered the turret- 
chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to the 
God of Jacob for the protection which he had afforded 
| her, and to implore its continuance for her and for 
her father. Another name glided into her petition—- 
l it was that of the wounded Christian, whom fate had 
placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men, his avowed 
enemies. Her heart indeed checked her, as if, even 
in communing with the Deity in prayer, she mingled 
in her devotions the recollections of one with whose 
fate hers could have no alliance—a Nazarene, and 
an enemy to her faith. But the petition was already 
breathed, nor could all the narrow prejudices of her 
sect induce Rebecca to wish it recalled. 


Question: Wlhat one circumstance lets you know that 
the events of the last four chapters all took place at the 

S£l Q uestion: How do you suggest that they all succeed 
in getting out? 




CHAPTER XXV 


A damn’d cramp piece of penmanship as 
ever I saw in my life. 

She Stoops to Conquer. 

When the Templar reached the hall of the castle, 
he found De Bracy already there. “Your love-suit,” 
said De Bracy, “hath, I suppose, been disturbed, 
like mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you 
have come later and more reluctantly, and therefore 
I presume your interview has proven more agree¬ 
able than mine.” 

“Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to 
the Saxon heiress?” said the Templar. 

By the bones of Thomas a Becket,” answered 
De Bracy, “the Lady Rowena must have heard that 
I cannot endure the sight of women’s tears.” 

“Away!” said the Templar; “thou a leader of a 
Free Company, and regard a woman’s tears! A few 
drops sprinkled on the torch of love make the flame 
blaze the brighter.” 

“Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling,” 
replied De Bracy; “but this damsel hath wept 
enough to extinguish a beacon-light. Never was such 
wringing of hands and such overflowing of eyes, 
since the days of St. Niobe, 1 of whom Prior Aymer 
told us. A water-fiend hath possessed the fair 
Saxon.” 

“A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of 
the Jew ess,” replied the Templar; “for, I think no 

a Because Niobe boasted of her children, they we^e killed 
and she was turned by Zeus to a rock which continued to 
weep. She stands as the impersonation of grief. 



IVANHOE 


317 


single one, not even Apollyon 1 himself, could have 
inspired such indomitable pride and resolution.—But 
where is Front-de-Bceuf ? That horn is sounded more 
and more clamorously.” 

“He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose,” re¬ 
plied De Bracy, coolly; “probably the howls of Isaac 
have drowned the blast of the bugle. Thou mayst 
!know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting 
with his treasures on such terms as our friend Front- 
de-Boeuf is like to offer, will raise a clamor loud 
enough to be heard over twenty horns and trumpets 
to boot. But we will make the vassals call him.” 

They were soon after joined by Front-de-Bceuf, 
who had been disturbed in his tryannic cruelty in 
the manner with which the reader is acquainted, and 
had only tarried to give some necessary directions. 

“Let us see the cause of this cursed clamor,” said 
Front-de-Boeuf.—“Here is a letter, and, if I mis¬ 
take not, it is in Saxon.” 

He looked at it, turning it round and round as if 
he had had really some hopes of coming at the mean¬ 
ing by inverting the position of the paper, and then 
handed it to De Bracy. 

“It may be magic spells for aught I know,” said 
I De Bracy, who possessed his full proportion of 
the ignorance which characterized the chivalry of the 
period. “Our chaplain attempted to teach me to 
write,” he said, “but all my letters were formed 
like spear-heads, or sword-blades, and so the old 
shaveling 2 gave up the task.” 

“Give it me,” said the Templar. “We have that 
of the priestly character, that we have some knowl¬ 
edge to enlighten our valor.” 

Angel of the bottomless pit. Revelations IX, 11. C&e 
of Satan’s angels in Pilgrim’s Progress. 

2 Monk. His head was shaved. 




318 


IVANHOE 


“Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, 
then,” said De Bracy; “what says the scroll?” 

“It is a formal letter of defiance.” answered the 
Templar; “but, by our Lady of Bethlehem, 1 if it be 
not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary cartel 
that ever was sent across the drawbridge of a baronial 
castle.” 

“Jest!” said Front-de-Bceuf, “I would gladly 
know who dares jest with me in such a matter!— 
Read it, Sir Brian.” 

The Templar accordingly read it as follows:— 

“I, Wamba, the son of Witless, Jester to a noble 
and freeborn man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called the 
Saxon,—And I„ Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the 
swineherd—” 

“Thou art mad,” said Front-de-Boeuf, interrupt¬ 
ing the reader. 

“By St. Luke, it is so set down,” answered the 
Templar. Then resuming his task, he went on,— 
“I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the 
said Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and 
confederates, who make common cause with us in 
this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for 
the present Le Noir Faineant, and the stout yeo¬ 
man, Robert Locksley, called Cleave-the-wand, Do 
you, Reginald Front-de-Bceuf, and your allies and 
accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you 
have, without cause given or feud declared, wrong¬ 
fully and by mastery seized upon the person of our 
lord and master the said Cedric; also upon the per¬ 
son of a noble and freeborn damsel, the Lady Row- 
ena of Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of a 
noble and freeborn man, Athelstane of Coningsburgh; 
ajso upon the persons of certain freeborn men, their 
cnichts; also upon certain serfs, their born bonds- 


’The Virgin Mary. 



IVANHOE 


319 


men; also upon a certain Jew, named Isaac of York, 
together with his daughter, a Jewess, and certain 
horses and mules: Which noble persons,, with their 
cnichts and slaves, and also with the horses and 
mules, Jew and Jewess beforesaid, were all in peace 
with his majesty, and traveling as liege subjects upon 
the king’s highway; therefore we require and de¬ 
mand that the said noble persons, namely, Cedric of 
Rotherwood, Rowena of Hargottstandstede, !Athel- 
stane of Coningsburgh, with their servants, cnichts 
and followers, also the horses and mules, Jew and 
Jewess aforesaid, together with all goods and chattels 
to them pertaining, be, within an hour after the deliv¬ 
ery hereof, delivered to us, or to those whom we shall 
appoint to receive the same, and that untouched and 
unharmed in body and goods. Failing of which, we 
do pronounce to you, that we hold ye as robbers and 
traitors, and will wager our bodies against ye in 
battle, seige, or otherwise, and do our utmost to your 
annoyance and destruction. Wherefore may God 
have you in his keeping.—Signed by us upon the 
eve of St. Withold’s day, under the great trysting 
oak in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being written 
by a holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady,, and St. 
Dunstan, in the Chapel of Copmanhurst.’ 

At the bottom of this document was scrawled, in 
the first place, a rude sketch of a cock s head and 
comb, with a legend expressing this heiroglyphic to 
the sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless. Un¬ 
der this respectable emblem stood a cross, stated to 
be the mark of Gurth, the son of Beowulph. Then 
was written, in rough bold characters, the words, 
Le Noir Faineant . And, to conclude the whole, an 
arrow neatly enough drawn, was described as the 
mark of the yeoman Locksley. 


Question : Was this letter intended to be humorous? 




320 


Ivan hoe 


The knights heard this uncommon document read 
from end to end, and then gazed upon each other 
in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to 
know what it could portend. De Bracy was the first 
to break silence by an uncontrollable fit of laughter, 
wherein he was joined, though with more modera¬ 
tion, by the Templar. Front-de-Bceuf, on the con¬ 
trary, seemed impatient of their ill-timed jocularity. 

“I give you plain warning,” he said, “fair sirs, 
that you had better consult how to bear yourselves 
under these circumstances, than give way to such 
misplaced merriment.” 

“Front-de-Bceuf has not recovered his temper 
since his late overthrow,” said De Bracy to the Tem¬ 
plar; “he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel, 
though it come but from a fool and a swineherd.” 

“By St. Michael,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, “I 
would thou couldst stand the whole brunt of this ad¬ 
venture thyself, De Bracy. These fellows dared not 
have acted with such inconceivable impudence, had 
they not been supported by some strong bands. There 
are enough of outlaws in this forest to resent my pro¬ 
tecting the deer. I did but tie one fellow, who was 
taken red-handed and in the act, to the horns of a 
wild stag, which gored him to death in five minutes, 
and I had as many arrows shot at me as there were 
launched against yonder target at Ashby.—Here, 
fellow,” he added, to one of his attendants, “hast 
thou sent out to see by what force this precious 
challenge is to be supported?” 

“There are at least two hundred men assembled 
in the woods,” answered a squire who was in attend¬ 
ance. 

“Here is a proper matter!” 1 said Front-de-Boeuf; 
“this comes of lending you the use of my castle, 


fine state of affairs. 



IVANHOE 


321 


iiat cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but 
|ou must bring this nest of hornets about my ears!” 

‘‘Of hornets!” said De Bracy; “of stingless 
rones rather; a band of lazy knaves, who take to 
le wood, and destroy the venison rather than labor 
br their maintenance.” 

“Stingless!” replied Front-de-Bceuf; “fork-headed 
hafts of a clothyard in length, and these shot with- 
n the breadth of a French crown 1 are sting enough.” 

“For shame,, Sir Knight!” said the Templar. 
Let us summon our people, and sally forth upon 
hem. One knight—ay, one man-at-arms, were 
nough for twenty such peasants.” 

“Enough, and too much,” said De Bracy; “I should 
mly be ashamed to couch lance against them.” 

“True,” answered Front-de-Boeuf; “were they 
>lack Turks or Moors, Sir Templar, or the craven 
peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these 
ire English yeomen, over whom we shall have no 
idvantage, save what we may derive from our arms 
md horses, which will avail us little in the glades of 
!;he forest. Sally, saidst thou? We have scarce men 
mough to defend the castle. The best of mine are 
at York; so is all your band, De Bracy; and we 
lave scarcely twenty, besides the handful that were 
engaged in this mad business.” 

“Thou dost not fear,” said the Templar, “that 
they can assemble in force sufficient to attempt the 
castle ? ” 

“Not so, Sir Brian,” answered. Front-de-Boeuf. 
“These outlaws have indeed a daring captain; but 
^without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced 
| leaders, my castle may defy them.” 

“Send to thy neighbors,” said the Templar; “let 
them assemble their people, and come to the rescue 


small gold coin. 




322 


IVANHOE 


of three knights, besieged by a jester and a swine¬ 
herd in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de- 
Bceuf!” 

“You jest, Sir Knight,” answered the baron; 
“but to whom should I send?—Malvoisin is by this 
time at York with his retainers, and so are my other 
allies; and so should I have been, but for this infer¬ 
nal enterprise.” 

“Then send to York, and recall our people,” said 
De Bracy. “If they abide the shaking of my stand¬ 
ard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I will give 
them credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in 
greenwood.” 

“And who shall bear such a message?” said 
Front-de-Boeuf; “they will beset every path, and rip 
the errand out of his bosom.—I have it,” he added, 
after pausing for a moment—“Sir Templar, thou 
canst write as well as read, and if we can but find 
the writing materials of my chaplain, who died a 
twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas 
carousals—” 

“So please ye,” said the squire, who was still in 
attendance, “I think old Urfried has them some¬ 
where in keeping, for love of the confessor. He was 
the last man, I have heard tell, who ever said 
aught to her, which man ought in courtesy to address 
to maid or matron.” 

“Go, search them out, Engelred,” said Front-de- 
Boeuf; “and then, Sir Templar, thou shalt return 
an answer to this bold challenge.” 

“I would rather do it at the sword’s point than 
at that of the pen,” said Bois-Guilbert; “but be it 
as you will.” 

He sat down accordingly, and indited in the 
French language, an epistle of the following tenor:— 

“Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, with his noble and 
knightly allies and confederates, receives no defi- 


Ivan hoe 


323 


,nces at the hands of slaves, bondsmen, or fugitives, 
f the person calling himself the Black Knight have 
ndeed a claim to the honors of chivalry, he ought to 
.now that he stands degraded by his present associa- 
ion, and has no right to ask reckoning at the hands 
if good men of noble blood. Touching the prison- 
rs we have made, we do in Christian charity require 
r ou to send a man of religion, to receive their con¬ 
fession, and reconcile them with God; since it is 
iur fixed intention to execute them this morning 
iefore noon, so that their heads being placed on the 
mttlements, shall show to all men how lightly we 
isteem those who have bestirred themselves in their 
•escue. Wherefore, as above, we require you to send 
i priest to reconcile them to God, in doing which you 
;hall render them the last earthly service/’ 

This letter being folded, was delivered to the 
squire, and by him to the messenger who waited 
vithout, as the answer to that which he had 
>rought. 

The yeoman having thus accomplished his mission, 
’eturned to the headquarters of the allies, which 
vere for the present established under a venerable 
>ak tree, about three arrow-flights distant from the 
iastle. Here Wamba and Gurth, with their allies 
she Black Kriight and Locksley,, and the jovial her- 
snit, awaited with impatience an answer to their 
summons. Around, and at a distance from them, 
vere seen many a bold yeoman, whose silvan dress and 
weatherbeaten countenances showed the ordinary 
nature of their occupation. More than two hundred 
had already assembled, and others were fast coming 
in. Those whom they obeyed as leaders were only 
distinguished from the others by a feather in the 
cap, their dress, arms, and equipments being in all 
other respects the same. 

Besides these bands, a less orderly and a worse 



324 


Ivan hoe 


armed force, consisting of the Saxon inhabitants of 
the neighboring township, as well as many bonds¬ 
men and servants from Cedric’s extensive estate, had 
already arrived, for the purpose of assisting in his 
rescue. Few of these were armed otherwise than 
with such rustic weapons as necessity sometimes con¬ 
verts to military purposes. Boar-spears, scythes, 
flails, and the like, were their chief arms; for the 
Normans, with the usual policy of conquerors, were 
jealous of permitting to the vanquished Saxons the 
possession or the use of swords and spears. These 
circumstances rendered the assistance of the Saxons 
far from being so formidable to the besieged, as the 
strength of the men themselves, their superior num¬ 
bers, and the animation inspired by a just cause, 
might otherwise well have made them. It was to 
the leaders of this motley army that the letter of 
the Templar was now delivered. 

Reference was at first made to the chaplain for an 
exposition of its contents. 

“By the crook of St. Dunstan,” said that worthy 
ecclesiastic, “which hath brought more sheep within 
the sheepfold than the crook of e’er another saint in 
Paradise, I swear that I cannot expound unto you 
this jargon, which, whether it be French or Arabic, 
is beyond my guess.” 

He then gave the letter to Gurth, who shook his 
head gruffly, and passed it to Wamba. The Jester 
looked at each of the four corners of the paper with 
such a grin of affected intelligence as a monkey is 
apt to assume upon similar occasions, then cut a 
caper, and gave the letter to Locksley. 

“If the long letters were bows, and the short 
letters broad arrows, I might know something of the 
matter,” said the brave yeoman; “but as the matter 
stands, the meaning is as safe, for me, as the stag 
that’s at twelve miles distant.” 


IVANHOE 


325 


‘‘I must be clerk, then,” said the Black Knight, 
ind taking the letter from Locksley, he first read it 
!>ver to himself, and then explained the meaning in 
$axon to his confederates. 

“Execute the noble Cedric!” exclaimed Wamba; 
‘by the rood, thou must be mistaken, Sir Knight." 

‘‘Not I. my worthy friend,” replied the knight; 
j“I have explained the words as they are here set 

down.” „ .. , 

“Then, by St. Thomas of Canterbury, replied 
Gurth, “we will have the castle, should we tear it 
down with our hands!” 

“We have nothing else to tear it with,” replied 
!Wamba; “but mine are scarce fit to make mammocks 
of freestone and mortar.” 

“ Tis but a contrivance to gain time,” said 
Locksley; “they dare not do a deed for which I 
could exact a fearful penalty.” 

“I would,” said the Black Knight, “there were 
some one among us who could obtain admission into 
the castle, and discover how the case stands with the 
besieged. Methinks, as they require a confessor to 
be sent, this holy hermit might at once exercise his 
pious vocation, and procure us the information we 
desire.” 

“A plague on thee, and thy advice! said the 
pious hermit; “I tell thee, Sir Slothful Knight, that 
when I doff my friar’s frock, my priesthood, my 
sancity, my very Latin, are put off along with it; 
and when in my green jerkin, 1 can better kill twenty 
deer than confess one Christian.” 
i “i fear,” said the Black Knight, “I fear greatly, 
there is no one here that is qualified to take upon 
him, for the nonce, 1 this same character of father 
confessor?” 


*For the time being. 





326 


Ivan hoe 


All looked on each other, and were silent. 

“I see,” said Wamba, after a short pause, ‘‘that 
the fool must be still the fool, and put his neck in 
the venture which wise men shrink from. You must 
know, my dear cousins and countrymen, that I wore 
russet before I wore motley, and was bred to be a 
friar, until a brain-fever came upon me and left 
me just wit enough to be a fool. I trust, with the 
assistance of the good hermit’s frock, together with 
the priesthood, sanctity, and learning which are 
stitched into the co\vl of it, I shall be found quali¬ 
fied to administer both worldly and ghostly comfort 
to our worthy master Cedric, and his companions in 
adversity.” 

‘‘Hath he sense enough, thinkest thou?” said the 
Black Knight, addressing Gurth. 

‘‘I know not,” said Gurth; “but if he hath not, 
it will be the first time he hath wanted wit to turn 
his folly to account.” 

“On with the frock, then, good fellow,” quoth the 
Knight, “and let thy master send us an account of 
their situation within the castle. Their numbers 
must be few, and it is five to one they may be acces¬ 
sible by a sudden and bold attack. Time wears— 
away with thee.” 

“And, in the meantime,” said Locksley, “we will 
beset the place so closely, that not so much as a ny 
shall carry news from thence. So that, my good 
friend,” he continued, addressing Wamba, “thou 
mayst assure these tyrants, that whatever violence 
they exercise on the persons of their prisoners, shall 
be most severely repaid upon their own.” 

“Pax vobiscum,” 1 said Wamba, who was now 
muffled in his religious disguise. 


x Peace be with you. 



Ivan hoe 


327 


And so saying, he imitated the solemn and stately 
deportment of a friar, and departed to execute his 
mission. 



CHAPTER XXVI 


The hottest horse will oft be cool. 

The dullest will show fire; 

The friar will often play the fool, 

The fool will play the friar. 

Old Sonp. 

When the Jester, arrayed in the cowl and frock 
of the hermit, and having his knotted cord twisted 
round his middle, stood before the portal of the 
castle of Front-de-Bceuf, the warder demanded of 
him his name and errand. 

“Pax vobiscum,” answered the Jester, “I am. a 
poor brother of the order of St. Francis, 1 who come 
hither to do my office to certain unhappy prisoners 
now secured within this castle/’ 

“Thou are a bold friar,” said the warder,, “to 
come hither, where, saving our own drunken con¬ 
fessor, a cock of thy feather hath not crowed these 
twenty years.” 

“Yet, I pray thee, do mine errand to the lord of 
the castle,” answered the pretended friar; “trust me, 
it will find good acceptance with him, and the cock 
shall crow, that the whole castle shall hear him.” 

“Gramercy,” said the warder; “but if I come to 
shame for leaving my post upon thine errand, I will 
try whether a friar’s gray gown be proof against 
a gray-goose shaft.” 

With this threat he left his turret, and carried to 
the hall of the castle his unwonted intelligence, that 
a holy friar stood before the gate and demanded in¬ 
stant admission. With no small wonder he received 
his master’s commands to admit the holy man im¬ 
mediately; and, having previously manned the en¬ 
t rance t o guard against surprise, he obeyed, without 


Franciscans or Grey Friars. 



IVANHOE 


329 


further scruple, the commands which he had received. 
The hare-brained self-conceit which had emboldened 
; Wamba to undertake this dangerous office, was scarce 
f sufficient to support him when he found himself in 
the presence of a man so dreadful, and so much 
dreaded, as Reginald Front-de-Bceuf, and he brought 
out his pax vobiscum, to which he, in a good measure, 
trusted for supporting his character, with more 
anxiety and hesitation than had hitherto accom¬ 
panied it. But Front-de-Bceuf was accustomed to 
see men of all ranks tremble in his presence, so that 
the timidity of the supposed father did not give him 
any cause of suspicion. “Who and whence art thou, 
priest ?” said he. 

“Pax vobiscum,” reiterated the Jester, “I am a 
poor servant of St. Francis, who, traveling through 
this wilderness, have fallen among thieves, as Scrip¬ 
ture hath it, quidarn viator 1 incidit in latrones, which 
thieves have sent me unto this castle in order to do 
my ghostly office on two persons condemned by your 
honorable justice.” 

“Ay, right/’ answered Front-de-Bceuf; “and canst 
thou tell me, holy father, the number of those ban¬ 
ditti?” 

“Gallant sir,” answered the Jester, “nomen illis 
legio / their name is legion.” 

“Tell me in plain terms what numbers there are, 
or, priest, thy cloak and cord will ill protect thee.’’ 

“Alas!” said the supposed friar, “cor meum 2 
eructavit, that is to say, I was like to burst with 
fear! but I conceive they may be—what of yeomen— 
what of commons, at least five hundred men.” 

“What!” said the Templar, who came into the 

'Luke X, 30. 

‘Mark V, 9. 

*‘My heart is inditing a good matter,” Psalms XLV, 1. 




330 


Ivan hoe 


hall that moment, “muster the wasps so thick here? 
It is time to stifle such a mischievous brood.” Then 
taking ^ront-de-Boeuf aside, “Knowest thou the 
priest?” 

“He is a stranger from a distant convent,” said 
Front-de-Bceuf; “I know him not.” 

“Then trust him not with thy purpose in words,” 
answered the Templar. “Let him carry a written 
order to De Bracy’s company of Free Companions, 
to repair instantly to their master’s aid. In the 
meantime, and that the shaveling may suspect noth¬ 
ing, permit him to go freely about his task of pre¬ 
paring these Saxon hogs for the slaughter-house.” 

“It shall be so,” said Front-de-Boeuf. And he 
forthwith appointed a domestic to conduct Wamba 
to the apartment where Cedric and Athelstane were 
confined. 

The impatience of Cedric had been rather en¬ 
hanced than diminished by his confinement. He 
walked from one end of the hall to the other, with the 
attitude of one who advances to charge an enemy, or 
to storm the breach of a beleaguered place, some¬ 
times ejaculating to himself, sometimes addressing 
Athelstane, who stoutly and stoically awaited the 
issue of the adventure, digesting, in the meantime, 
with great composure, the liberal meal which he had 
made at noon, and not greatly interesting himself 
about the duration of his captivity, which, he con¬ 
cluded, would, like all earthly evils, find an end in 
Heaven’s good time. 

“Pax v obis cum,” said the Jester, entering the 
apartment; “the blessing of St. Dunstan, St. Dennis, 
St. Duthoc and all other saints whatsoever, be upon 
ye and about ye.” 

“Enter freely,” answered Cedric to the supposed 
friar; “with what intent art thou come hither7" 


IVANHOE 


331 


“To bid you prepare yourselves for death,” an¬ 
swered the Jester. 

“It is impossible!” replied Cedric, starting. 

“Fearless and wicked as they are, they dare not 
attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!” 

“Alas!” said the Jester, “to restrain them by 
their sense of humanity is the same as to stop a runa¬ 
way horse with a bridle of silk thread. Bethink 
thee, therefore, noble Cedric, and you also, gallant 
Athelstane, what crimes you have committed in the 
flesh; for this very day will ye be called to answer at 
a higher tribunal.” 

“Hearest thou this, Athelstane?” said Cedric; 
“we must rouse up our hearts to this last action, since 
better it is we should die like men, than live like 
slaves.” 

“I am ready,” answered Athelstane, “to stand the 
worst of their malice, and shall walk to my death 
with as much composure as ever I did to my 
dinner.” 

“Let us then unto our holy gear, 1 father,” said 
Cedric. 

“Wait yet a moment, good uncle,” said the Jester, 
in his natural tone; “better look long before you 
leap in the dark.” 

“By my faith,” said Cedric, “I should know that 
voice!” 

“It is that of your trusty slave and jester,” an¬ 
swered Wamba, throwing back his cowl. Had you 
taken a fool’s advice formerly, you would not have 
been here at all. Take a fool’s advice now, and you 
will not be here long.” 

“How mean’st thou, knave?” answered the Saxon. 

“Even thus,” replied Wamba; “take thou this 
frock and cord, which are all the orders I ever had, 


^oly Business. 



382 


Ivan hoe 


and march quickly out of the castle, leaving me your 
cloak and girdle to take the long leap in thy stead.” 

“Leave thee in my stead!” said Cedric, aston¬ 
ished at the proposal; “why, they would hang thee, 
my poor knave.” 

“E’en let them do as they are permitted,” said 
Wamba; “I trust—no disparagement to your birth 
—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with as 
much gravity as the chain 1 hung upon his ancestor 
the alderman.” 

“Well, Wamba,” answered Cedric, “for one thing 
will I grant thy request. And that is, if thou wilt 
make the exchange of garments with Lord Athel¬ 
stane instead of me.” 

“No, by St. Dunstan,” answered Wamba; “there 
were little reason in that. Good right there is, that 
the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of 
Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying 
for the benefit of one whose fathers were strangers 
to his.” 

“Villain,” said Cedrick, “the fathers of Athelstane 
were monarchs of England!” 

“They might be whomsoever they pleased,” replied 
Wamba; “but my neck stands too straight upon my 
shoulders to have it twisted for their sake. Where¬ 
fore, good my master, either take my proffer your¬ 
self, or suffer me to leave this dungeon as free as I 
entered.” 

“Let the old tree wither,” continued Cedric, “so 
the stately hope of the forest be preserved. Save 
the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it is the 
duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou 
and I will abide together the utmost rage of our 
injurious oppressors, while he, free and safe, shall 


‘Symbol or official badge of an alderman. 



Ivan hoe 


333 


arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to 
avenge us/’ 

“Not so, father Cedric,” said Athelstane, grasping 
his hand,—for, when roused to think or act, his deeds 
and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race. 
—“Not so,” he continued, “I would rather remain 
in this hall a week without food save the prisoner’s 
[ stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner’s measure of 
; water, than embrace the opportunity to escape which 
the slave’s untaught kindness has purveyed for his 


master.” 

“You are called wise men, sirs,” said the Jester, 
“and I a crazed fool; but, uncle Cedric, and cousin 
Athelstane, the fool shall decide this controversy for 
ye, and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies any 
farther I am like John-a-Duck’s mare, that will let 
no man mount her but John-a-Duck. I came to save 
my master, and if he will not consent—basta—I can 
but go away home again. Kind service cannot be 
chucked from hand to hand like a shuttle-cock or 
stool-ball. I’ll hang for no man but my own born 


master.” , , , „ 

“Go then, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane, neg¬ 
lect not this opportunity. Your presence without 
may encourage friends to our rescue—your remain- 
ing here will ruin us all.” 

“And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from 
without?” said Cedric, looking to the Jester. 

“Prospect, indeed!” echoed Wamba; “let me tell 
you, when you fill my cloak, you are wrapped in a 
general’s cossack. Five hundred men are there 
without, and I was this morning one of their chief 
leaders My fool’s cap was a casque, and my bauble 
a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will 
make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, 
I fear they will lose in valor what they may gam m 
discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to 





334 


Ivan hoe 


poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my cockscomb 
hang in the hall at Rotherwood, in memory that I 
flung away my life for my master, like a faithful— 
fool.” 

The last word came out with a sort of double ex¬ 
pression, betwixt jest and earnest. The tears stood 
in Cedric’s eyes. 

“Thy memory shall be preserved,” he said, “while 
fidelity and affection have honor upon earth! But 
that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena, 
and 4hee, Athelstane, and thee also, my poor Wamba, 
thou shouldst not overbear me in this matter.” 

The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when 
a sudden doubt struck Cedric. 

“I know no language,” he said, “but my own, 
and a few words of their mincing Norman. How 
shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?” 

“The spell lies in two words,” replied Wamba— 
“Pax vobiscum will answer all queries. If you go 
or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, Pax vobiscum 
carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar 
as a broomstick to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer. 
Speak it but thus, in a deep grave tone ,—Pax vo¬ 
biscum !—it is irresistible. Watch and ward, knight 
and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon 
them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged 
to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they may, I will 
try its weight upon the finisher of the sentence.” 

“If such prove the case,” said his master, “my 
religious orders are soon taken— Pax vobiscum. I 
trust I shall remember the password.—Noble Athel¬ 
stane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose 
heart might make amends for a weaker head—I will 
save you, or return and die with you. The royal 
blood of our Saxon' kings shall not be spilt while 
mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair fall from 
the head of the kind knave who risked himself for his 



IVANHOE 


335 


master, if Cedric’s peril can prevent it.—Farewell.” 

“Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane,” “re¬ 
member it is the true part of a friar to accept refresh¬ 
ment, if you are offered any.” 

“Farewell, uncle,” added Wamba; “and remem¬ 
ber Pax vobiscum.” 

Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his ex¬ 
pedition; and it was not long ere he had occasion to 
try the force of that spell which his Jester had recom¬ 
mended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky 
passage, by which he endeavored to work his way to 
the hall of the castle, he was interrupted by a female 
form. 

<( Pax vobiscum!” said the pseudo friar, and was 
endeavoring to hurry past, when a soft voice replied, 
“Et vobis x . quaeso f domine reverendissime, pro 
misericordia vestra.” 

“I am somewhat deaf,” replied Cedric, in good 
Saxon, and at the same time muttered to himself, “A 
curse on the fool and his Pax vobiscuml I have lost 
my javelin at the first cast.” 

It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of 
those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and this the 
person who now addressed Cedric knew full well. 

“I pray you, of dear love, reverend father,” she 
replied in his own language, “that you will deign 
to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded pris¬ 
oner of this castle ; and have such compassion upon 
him and us as thy holy office teaches. Never shall 
good deed so highly advantage thy convent. 

“Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed, 
“my time in this castle will not permit me to exercise 
the duties of mine office—I must presently forth— 
there is life and death upon my speed.” 

“Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you 


And with you—I beg, most reverend master, your pity. 



386 


Ivan hoe 


have taken on you,” replied the suppliant, ‘‘not to 
leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel 
or succor.” 

“May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in 
Ifrin with the souls of Odin and Thor!” answered 
Cedric, impatiently, and would probably have pro¬ 
ceeded in the same tone of total departure from his 
spiritual character, when the colloquy was interrupted 
by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone of the 
turret. 

“How, minion,” said she to the female speaker, “is 
this the manner in which you requite the kindness 
which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell yonder? 
—Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious 
language to free himself from the importunities of a 
Jewess?” 

“A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself of the 
information to get clear of their interruption,—“Let 
me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am 
fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollu¬ 
tion.” 

“Come this way, father,” said the old hag; “thou 
art a stranger in this castle, and canst not leave it 
without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak 
with thee.— And you, daughter of .an accursed race, 
go to the sick man’s chamber, and tend him until my 
return; and woe betide you if you again quit it with¬ 
out my permission!” 

Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had pre¬ 
vailed upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the turret, 
and Urfried had employed her services where she 
herself would most gladly have paid them, by the bed¬ 
side of the wounded Ivanhoe. With an understand¬ 
ing awake to their dangerous situation, and prompt 
to avail herself of each means of safety which oc- 


*Two deities of Norse mythology. Ifrin meant hell. 



IVANHOE 


337 


urred, Rebecca had hoped something from the pres- 
nce of a man of religion, who, she learned from 
Jrfried, had penetrated into this godless castle. She 
matched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic, with 
he purpose of addressing him, and interesting him 
n favor of the prisoners, with what imperfect suc- 
ess the reader has been just acquainted. 





CHAPTER XXVII 


Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate. 

But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin? 

Thy deeds are proved—thou know’st thy fate; 

But come, thy tale—begin—begin. 

****** 

But I have griefs of other kind, 

Troubles and sorrows more severe; 

Give me to ease my tortured mind, 

Lend to my woes a patient ear; 

And let me, if I may not find 

A friend to help—find one to hear. 

Orabbe’s Ball of Justice. 

When Urfried had with clamors and menaces driv¬ 
en Rebecca back to the apartment from which she 
had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling 
Cedric into a small apartment, the door of which she 
heedfully secured. Then fetching from a cupboard a 
stoup of wine and two flagons, she placed them on the 
table, and said in a tone rather asserting a fact than 
asking a question, “Thou art Saxon, father.—Deny it 
not,” she continued, observing that Cedric hastened 
not to reply; “the sounds of my native language are 
sweet to mine ears, though seldom heard, save from 
the tongues of the wretched and degraded serfs on 
whom the proud Normans impose the meanest drudg¬ 
ery of this dwelling. Thou art a Saxon, father— a 
Saxon, and, save as thou are a servant of God, a free¬ 
man.—Thine accents are sweet in mine ear.” 

“Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?” re¬ 
plied Cedric; “it were, methinks, their duty to com¬ 
fort the outcast and oppressed children of the soil.” 

“They come not, or if they come, they better love 
to revel at the boards of their conquerors,” answered 
Urfried, “than to hear the groans of their country¬ 
men—so, at least, report speaks of them—of myself 


IVANHOE 


339 


[ can say little. This castle, for ten years, has opened 
bo no priest save the debauched Norman chaplain who 
partook the nightly revels of Front-de-Boeuf, and he 
has been long gone to render an account of his stew¬ 
ardship—But thou art a Saxon—a Saxon priest, and 
I have one question to ask of thee.” 

“I am a Saxon,” answered Cedric, “but unworthy, 
surely* of the name of priest. Let me begone on my 
way .—i swear I will return, or send one of our fath¬ 
ers more worthy to hear your confession.” 

“Stay yet a while,” said Urfried; “the accents of 
the voice which thou hearest now will soon be choked 
with the cold earth, and I would not descend to it like 
the beast I have lived. But wine must give me 
strength to tell the horrors of my tale.” She poured 
out a cup, and drank it with a frightful avidity, 
which seemed desirous of draining the last drop in 
the goblet. “It stupefies,” she said, looking upwards 
as she finished her draught, “but it cannot cheer.— 
Partake it, father, if you would hear my tale without 
sinking down upon the pavement.” Cedric would 
have avoided pledging her in this ominous convivial¬ 
ity, but the sign which she made to him expressed im¬ 
patience and despair. He complied with her request, 
and answered her challenge in a large wine-cup, she 
ithen proceeded with her story, as if appeased by his 

complaisance. , ,, , 

<( I W as not born,” she said, “father, the wretch that 
thou now seest me. I was free, was happy, was hon¬ 
ored loved, and was beloved. I am now a slave, mis¬ 
erable and degraded—the sport of my masters' pas¬ 
sions while I had yet beauty—the object of their con¬ 
tempt, scorn, and hatred, since it has passed away. 
Dost thou wonder, father, that I should hate mankind, 
and, above all, the race that has wrought this change 
in me? Can the wrinkled decrepit hag before thee, 
whose w T rath must vent itself in impotent curses, for- 




340 


IVANHOE 


get she was once the daughter of the noble Thane of 
Torquilstone, before whose frown a thousand vassals 
trembled?” 

“Thou the daughter of Torquil Wolfganger!” said 
Cedric, receding as he spoke; “thou—thou—the 
daughter of that noble Saxon, my father's friend and 
companion in arms!” 

“Thy father’s friend!” echoed Urfried; “then 
Cedric called the Saxon stands before me, for the 
noble Hereward of Rotherwood had but one son, 
whose name is well known among his countrymen. 
But if thou are Cedric of Rotherwood, why this relig¬ 
ious dress?—Hast thou too despaired of saving thy 
country, and sought refuge from oppression in the 
shade of the convent?” 

“It matters not who I am,” said Cedric; “proceed, 
uphappy woman, with thy tale of horror and guilt!— 
Guilt there must be—there is guilt even in thy liv¬ 
ing to tell it.” 

“There is—there is,” answered the wretched woman, 
deep, black, damning guilt,—guilt that lies like a load 
at my breast—guilt that all the penitential fires of 
hereafter cannot cleanse.—Yes, in these halls, stained 
with the noble and pure blood of my father and my 
brethren—in these very halls, to have lived the para¬ 
mour of their murderer, the slave at once and the 
partaker of his pleasures, was to render every breath 
which I drew of vital air, a crime and a curse.” 

“Wretched woman!” exclaimed Cedric. “And while 
the friends of thy father—while each true Saxon heart, 
as it breathed a requiem for his soul, and those of 
his valiant sons, forgot not in their prayers the mur¬ 
dered Ulrica—while all mourned and honored the 
dead, thou hast lived to merit our hate and execra¬ 
tion-lived to unite thyself with the vile tyrant who 
murdered thy nearest and dearest—who shed the 
blood of infancy, rather than a male of the noble 




IVANHOE 


341 


house of Torquil Wolf ganger should survive—with 
him hast thou lived to unite thyself, and in the bands 
of lawless love!” 

“In lawless bands, indeed, but not in those of love!” 
answered the hag; “love will sooner visit the regions 
of eternal doom, than those unhallowed vaults. No, 
with that at least I cannot reproach myself.—Hatred 
to Front-de-Bceuf and his race governed my soul most 
deeply, even in the hour of his guilty endearments.” 

“You hated him, and yet you lived,” replied Cedric; 
“wretch! was there no poniard—no knife—no bodkin! 
Well was it for thee, since thou didst prize such an 
existence, that the secrets of a Norman castle are 
Hike those of the grave. For had I but dreamed of 
the daughter of Torquil living in foul communion 
iwith the murderer of her father, the sword of a true 
Saxon had found thee out even in the arms of thy 
paramour!” 

“Wouldst thou indeed have done this justice to the 
name of Torquil?” said Ulrica, for we may now lay 
aside her assumed name of Urfried; “thou art then 
the true Saxon report speaks thee! for even within 
these accursed walls, where, as thou well sayest, guilt 
shrouds itself in inscrutable mystery, even there has 
the name of Cedric been sounded—and I, wretched 
and degraded, have rejoiced to think that there yet 
breathed an avenger of our unhappy nation.—I also 
have had my hours of vengeance—I have fomented 
the quarrels of our foes, and heated drunken revelry 
into murderous broil—I have seen their blood flow 
I have heard their dying groans!—Look on me, Cedric 
I —are there not still left on this foul and faded face 
j some traces of the features of Torquil? 

“Ask me not of them, Ulrica,” replied Cedric, in 
a tone of grief mixed with abhorrence; “these traces 
form such a resemblance as arises from the grave of 





342 


IVANHOE 


the dead, when a fiend has animated the lifeless 
corpse.” 

“Be it so,” answered Ulrica; “yet wore these fiend¬ 
ish features the mask of a spirit of light when they 
were able to set at variance the elder Front-de-Boeuf 
and his son Reginald! The darkness of hell should 
hide what followed, but revenge must lift the veil, 
and darkly intimate what it would raise the dead to 
speak aloud. Long had the smoldering fire of dis¬ 
cord glowed between the tyrant father and his sav¬ 
age son—long had I nursed, in secret, the unnatural 
hatred. It blazed forth in an hour of drunken was¬ 
sail, and at his own board fell my oppressor by the 
hand of his own son. Such are the secrets these 
vaults conceal!—Rend asunder, ye accursed arches,” 
she added, looking up towards the roof, “and bury in 
your fall all who are conscious of the hideous mys¬ 
tery!” 

“And thou, creature of guilt and misery,” said 
Cedric, “what became thy lot on the death of thy 
ravisher?” 

“Guess it, but ask it not. Here—here I dwelt, till 
age, premature age, has stamped its ghastly features 
on my countenance—scorned and insulted where I 
was once obeyed, and compelled to bound the revenge 
which had once such ample scope, to the efforts of 
petty malice of a discontented menial, or the vain or 
unheeded curses of an impotent hag—condemned to 
hear from my lonely turret the sounds of revelry in 
which I once partook, or the shrieks and groans of 
new victims of oppression.” 

Ulrica,” said Cedric, “with a heart which still, 

I fear, regrets the lost reward of thy crimes; as 
much as the deeds by which thou didst acquire that 
meed, how didst thou dare to address thee to one 
who wears this robe? Consider, unhappy woman, 
what could the sainted Edward himself do for thee, 


IVANHOE 


343 


were he here in bodily presence? The royal Confes¬ 
sor was endowed by Heaven with power to cleanse 
the ulcers of the body, but only God himself can cure 
the leprosy of the soul.” 

•‘Yet, turn not from me, stern prophet of wrath,” 
she exclaimed, “but tell me, if thou canst, in what 
shall terminate these new and awful feelings th»* 
burst on my solitude—Why do deeds, long since done 
rise before me in new and irresistible horrors? What 
fate is prepared beyond the grave for her, to whom 
God has assigned on earth a lot of such unspeakable 
wretchedness? Better had I turn to Woden, Hertha, 
and Zernebock—to Mista, and to Skogula, the gods of 
our yet unbaptized ancestors, than endure the dread¬ 
ful anticipations which have of late haunted my wak¬ 
ing and my sleeping hours!” 

“I am no priest,” said Cedric, turning with dis¬ 
gust from this miserable picture of guilt, wretched¬ 
ness, and despair; “I am no priest, though I wear a 
priest’s garment.” 

“Priest or layman,” answered Ulrica, “thou art the 
first I have seen for twenty years, by whom God was 
reared or man regarded; and dost thou bid me de¬ 
spair?” 

“I bid thee repent,” said Cedric. “Seek to prayer 
and penance, and mayest thou find acceptance! But 
I cannot, I will not, longer abide with thee.” 

“Stay yet a moment!” said Ulrica; “leave me not 
now, son of my father’s friend, lest the demon who 
has governed my life should tempt me to avenge my¬ 
self of thy hard-hearted scorn. Thinkest thou, if 
Front-de-Boeuf found Cedric the Saxon in his castle, 
in such a disguise, that thy life would be a long one? 
_Already his eye has been upon thee like a falcon on 

his prey ” 

“And 'be it so,” said Cedric; “and let him tear me 
with beak and talons, ere my tongue say one word 


344 


Ivan hoe 


which my heart doth not warrant. I will die a Sax¬ 
on—true in word, open in deed.—I bid thee avaunt! 
—touch me not, stay me not! The sight of Font-de- 
Boeuf himself is less odious to me than thou, degraded 
and degenerate as thou art.” 

“Be it so,” said Ulrica, no longer interrupting 
him, “go thy way, and forget, in the insolence of thy 
superiority, that the wretch before thee is the daugh¬ 
ter of thy father’s friend—Go thy way—If I am 
separated from mankind by my sufferings—separated 
from those whose aid I might most justly expect— 
not less will I be separated from them in my re¬ 
venge!—No man shall aid me, but the ears of all 
men shall tingle to hear of the deed which I shall 
dare to do!—Farewell!—thy scorn has burst the 
last tie which seemed yet to unite me to mankind—a 
thought that my woes might claim the compassion of 
my people.” 

“Ulrica,” said Cedric, softened by this appeal, 
“hast thou borne up and endured to live through 
so much guilt and so much misery, and wilt thou 
now yield to despair when thine eyes are opened to 
thy crimes, and when repentance were thy fitter 
occupation?” 

“Cedric,” answered Ulrica, “thou little knowest the 
human heart. To act as I have acted, to think as I 
have thought, requires the maddening love of pleasure, 
mingled with the keen appetite of revenge, the proud 
consciousness of power; draughts too intoxicating 
for the human heart to bear, and yet retain the power 
to prevent. Their force has long passed away. Age 
has no pleasures, wrinkles have no influence, re¬ 
venge itself dies away in impotent curses. Then 
comes remorse, with all its vipers, mixed with vain 
regrets for the past, and despair for the future!— 
Then, when all other strong impulses have ceased, we 
become like the fiends in hell, who may feel remorse, 


IVANHOE 


345 


but never repentance.—But thy words have awakened 
a new soul within me. Well hast thou said, all is 
possible for those who dare to die!—Thou hast shown 
me the means of revenge, and be assured I will em¬ 
brace them. It has hitherto shared this wasted bosom 
with other and with rival passions—henceforward 
! it shall possess me wholly, and thou thyself shalt say, 
that, whatever was the life of Ulrica, her death well 
became the daughter of the noble Torquil. There is a 
force without beleaguering this accursed castle. Has¬ 
ten to lead them to the attack, and when thou shalt 
see a red flag wave from the turret on the eastern 
angle of the donjon, press the Normans hard—they 
I will then have enough to do within, and you may win 
the wall in spite both of bow and mangonel.—Begone, 

: I pray thee—follow thine own fate, and leave me to 
mine.” 

Cedric would have inquired farther into the pur¬ 
pose which she thus darkly announced, but the stern 
voice of Front-de-Bceuf was heard, exclaiming, 
“Where tarries this loitering priest? By the scallop- 
shell of Compostella, I will make a martyr of him, 
if he loiters here to hatch treason among my domes¬ 
tics!” 

“What a true prophet,” said Ulrica, “is an evil 
conscience! But heed him not—out and to thy peop- 
ple. Cry your Saxon onslaught, and let them sing 
j their war-song of Rollo 2 , if they will; vengeance shall 
bear a burden to it.” 

As she thus spoke, she vanished through a private 
j door, and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf entered the apart¬ 
ment. Cedric, with some difficulty, compelled him- 
! self to make obeisence to the haughty Baron, who 


| 3 In Spain, the site of a shrine of St. James which was 
i visited by pilgrims. 

2 A Norse viking, founder of the Norman settlement. 





346 


IVANHOE 


returned his courtesy with a slight inclination of the 
head. 

“Thy penitents, father, have made a long shrift— 
it is the better for them, since it is the last they shall 
ever make. Hast thou prepared them for death ?” 

“I found them,” said Cedric, in such French as he 
could command, “expecting the worst, from the moment 
they knew into whose power they had fallen.” 

“How now, Sir Friar,” replied Front-de-Bceuf, “thy 
speech, methinks, smacks of a Saxon tongue?” 

“I was bred in the convent of St. Withold of Bur¬ 
ton,” answered Cedric. 

“Ay?” said the Baron; “it had been better for thee 
to have been a Norman, and better for my purpose 
too; but need has no choice of messengers. That St. 
Withold’s of Burton is a howlet’s nest worth the harry¬ 
ing. The day will soon come that the frock shall pro¬ 
tect the Saxon as little as the mail coat.” 

“God’s will be done,” said Cedric, in a voice tremu¬ 
lous with passion, which Front-de-Bceuf imputed to 
fear. 

“I see,” said he, “thou dreamest already that our 
men-at-arms are in thy refectory and thy ale-vaults. 
But do me one cast of thy holy office, and, come what 
list of others, thou shalt sleep as safe in thy cell as a 
snail within his shell of proof.” 

“Speak your commands,” said Cedric, with sup¬ 
pressed emotion. 

“Follow me through this passage, then, that I may 
dismiss thee by the postern.” 

And as he strode on his way before the supposed 
friar, Front-de-Bceuf thus schooled him in the part 
which he desired he should act. 

“Thou seest, Sir Friar, yon herd of Saxon swine, 
who have dared to environ this castle of Torquil- 
stone. Tell them whatever thou hast a mind of the 
weakness of this fortalice, or aught else that can de- 


Ivan hoe 


347 


tain them before it for twenty-four hours. Mean¬ 
time bear thou this scroll—But soft—canst read, Sir 
Priest?” 

“Not a jot I,” answered Cedric, “save on my breviary 
and then I know the characters, because I have the 
holy service by heart, praise be Our Lady and St. 
Withold!” 

“The fitter messenger for my purpose.—Carry thou 
this scroll to the castle of Philip de Malvoisin; say it 
cometh from me, and is written by the Templar Brian 
de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray him to send it to 
York with all the speed man and horse can make. 
Meanwhile, tell him to doubt nothing, he shall find us 
whole and sound behind our battlement. Shame on it, 
that we should be compelled to hide thus by a pack 
of runagates, who are wont to fly even at the flash 
of our pennons and the tramp of our horses! I say to 
thee, priest, contrive some cast of thine art to keep 
the knaves where they are, until our friends bring 
up their lances. My vengeance is awake, and she is a 
falcon that slumbers not till she has been gorged. ’ 

“By my patron saint,” said Cedric, with deeper 
energy than became his character, “and by every 
saint who has lived and died in England, your com¬ 
mands shall be obeyed! Not a Saxon shall stir from 
before these walls, if I have art and influence to de¬ 
tain them there.” , , ., 

“Ha’” said Front-de-Boeuf, “thou changest thy 
tone Sir Priest, and speakest brief and bold, as if 
thy heart were in the slaughter of the Saxon herd; 
and yet thou art thyself of kindred to the swine. 

Cedric was no ready practicer of the art of dissim¬ 
ulation, and would at this moment have been much 
the better of a hint from Wamba’s more fertile brain. 
But necessity, according to the ancient proverb, 
sharpens invention, and he muttered something under 
his cowl concerning the men in question being ex- 


348 


Ivan hoe 


communicated outlaws both to church and to king¬ 
dom. 

“Despardieux,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, “thou 
hast spoken the very truth—I forgot that the knaves 
can strip a fat abbot, as well as if they had been 
born south of yonder salt channel. Was it not he of 
St. Ives whom they tied to an oak-tree and compelled 
to sing a mass while they were rifling his mails and 
his wallets?—No, by Our Lady!—that jest was played 
by Gualtier of Middleton, one of our own companions- 
at-arms. But they were Saxons who robbed the 
chapel at St. Bees of cup, candlestick, and chalice, 
were they not?” 

“They were godless men,” answered Cedric. 

“Ay, and they drank out all the good wine and 
ale that lay in store for many a secret carousal, when 
ye pretend ye are but busied with vigils and primes! 
—Priest, thou art bound to revenge such sacrilege.” 

“I am indeed bound to vengeance,” murmured Ced¬ 
ric; “Saint Withold knows my heart.” 

Front-de-Bceuf, in the meanwhile, led the way to 
a postern, where, passing the moat on a single plank, 
they reached a small barbican, or exterior defense, 
which communicated with the open field by a well- 
fortified sallyport. 

“Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand, 
and if thou return hither when it is done, thou shalt 
see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the sham¬ 
bles of Sheffield. And, hark thee, thou seemst to 
be a jolly confessor—come hither after the onslaught, 
and thou shalt have as much Malvoisie as would drench 
thy whole convent.” 

“Assuredly we shall meet again,” answered Cedric. 

“Something in hand the whilst,” continued the Nor¬ 
man ; and, as they parted at the postern door, he thrust 
into Cedric's reluctant hand a gold byzant, adding, 


Ivan hoe 


349 


'‘Remember, I will flay off both cowl and skin, if thou 
failest in thy purpose.” 

“And full leave will I give thee to do both,” an¬ 
swered Cedric, leaving the postern, and striding forth 
over the free field with a joyful step, “if, when we 
meet next, I deserve not better at thine hand.”— 
Turning then back towards the castle, he threw the 
piece of gold towards the donor, exclaiming at the 
same time, “False Norman, thy money perish with 
thee!” 

Front-de-Bceuf heard the words imperfectly, but 
the action was suspicious. “Archers,” he called to the 
warders on the outward battlements, “send me an 
arrow through yon monk’s frock! Yet stay,” he said, 
as his retainers were bending their bows, “it avails 
not—we must thus far trust him since we have no 
better shift. I think he dares not betray me—at the 
worst I can but treat with these Saxon dogs whom I 
have safe in kennel. Ho! Giles jailer, let them bring 
Cedric of Rotherwood before me, and the other churl, 
his companion—him I mean of Coningsburgh—Athel- 
stane there, or what call they him? Their very names 
are an encumbrance to a Norman knight’s mouth, and 
have, as it were, a flavor of bacon. Give me a stoup 
of wine, as jolly Prince John said, that I may wash 
away the relish—place it in the armory, and thither 
lead the prisoners.” 

His commands were obeyed; and, upon entering 
that Gothic apartment, hung with many spoils won 
by his own valor and that of his father, he found a 
flagon of wine on the massive oaken table, and the 
two Saxon captives under the guard of four of his 
dependents. Front-de-Boeuf took a long draught of 
wine, and then addressed his prisoners; for the man¬ 
ner in which Wamba drew the cap over his face, the 
change of dress, the gloomy and broken light, and 


350 


Ivan hoe 


the Baron’s imperfect acquaintance with the features 
of Cedric, (who avoided his Norman neighbors, and 
seldom stirred beyond his own domains), prevented 
him from discovering that the most important of his 
captives had made his escape. 

“Gallants of England,” said Front-de-Bceuf, “how 
relish ye your entertainment at Torquilstone?—Are 
ye yet aware what your surquedy and outrecuidance 
merit, for scoffing at the entertainment of a prince 
of the House of Anjou?—Have ye forgotten how ye 
requited the unmerited hospitality of the royal John? 
By God and St. Dennis, an ye pay not the richer ran¬ 
som, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars 
of these windows, till the kites and hooded crows have 
made skeletons of you!—Speak out, ye Saxon dogs— 
what bid ye for your worthless lives?—How say you, 
you of Rotherwood?” 

“Not a doit I,” answered poor Wamba—“and for 
hanging up by the feet, my brain has been topsy¬ 
turvy, they say, ever since the biggin was bound first 
round my head; so turning me upside down may per- 
adventure restore it again.” 

“St. Genevieve!” said Front-de-Boeuf, “what have 
we got here?” 

And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric’s 
cap from the head of the Jester, and throwing open 
his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude, 
the silver collar round his neck. 

“Giles—Clement—dogs and varlets!” exclaimed the 
furious Norman, “what have you brought me here?” 

“I think I can tell you,” said De Bracy, who just 
entered the apartment. “This is Cedric’s clown, who 
fought so manful a skirmish with Isaac of York about 
a question of precedence.” 

“I shall settle it for them both,” replied Front-de- 


^‘Insolence and presumption.” (Scoffs note.) 




IVANHOE 


351 


Boeuf; “they shall hang on the same gallows, unless 
his master and this boar of Coningsburgh will pay 
well for their lives. Their wealth is the least they 
can surrender; they must also carry off with them 
the swarms that are besetting the castle, subscribe 
a surrender of their pretended immunities, and live 
under us as serfs and vassals; too happy if, in the 
new world that is about to begin, we leave them the 
breath of their nostrils.—Go,” said he to two of his 
attendants, “fetch me the right Cedric hither, and I 
pardon your error for once; the rather that you but 
mistake a fool for a Saxon franklin.” 

“Ay, but,” said Wamba, “your chivalrous excellency 
will find there are more fools than franklins among 
us.” 

“What means the knave?” said Front-de-Bceuf, 
looking towards his followers, who, lingering and 
loath, faltered forth their belief, that if this were 
not Cedric who was there in presence, they knew not 
what was become of him. 

“Saints of Heaven!” exclaimed De Bracy, “he must 
have escaped in the monk’s garments!” 

“Fiends of hell!” echoed Front-de-Boeuf, “it was 
then the boar of Rotherwood whom I ushered to the 
postern, and dismissed with my own hands!—And 
thou,” he said to Wamba, “whose folly could overreach 
the wisdom of idiots yet more gross than thyself 
I will give thee holy orders—I will shave thy crown 
for thee!—Here, let them tear the scalp from his head, 
and then pitch him headlong from the battlements— 
Thy trade is to jest, canst thou jest now?” 

“You deal with me better than your word, noble 
knight,” whimpered forth poor Wamba, whose habits 
of buffoonery were not to be overcome even by the 
immediate prospect of death; “if you give me the red 
cap you propose, out of a simple monk you will make 
a cardinal.” 


352 


IVANIIOE 


“The poor wretch,” said De Bracy, “is resolved to 
die in his vocation.—Front-de-Boeuf, you shall not 
slay him. Give him to me to make sport for my 
Free Companions.—How sayest thou, knave? Wilt 
thou take heart of grace, and go to the wars with 
me?” 

“Ay, with my master’s leave,” said Wamba; “for 
look you, I must not slip collar” (and he touched that 
which he wore) “without his permission.” 

“Oh, a Norman saw will soon cut a Saxon collar,” 
said De Bracy. 

“Ay, noble sir,” said Wamba, “and thence goes the 
proverb— 

“ ‘Norman saw on English oak, 

On English neck a Norman yoke; 

Norman spoon in English dish, 

And England ruled as Normans wish; 

Blithe world to England never will be more, 

Till England's rid of all the four.’ ” 

“Thou dost well, De Bracy,” said Front-de-Boeuf, 
“to stand there listening to a fool’s jargon, when 
destruction is gaping for us! Seest thou not we are 
overreached, and that our proposed mode of com¬ 
munication with our friends without has been dis¬ 
concerted by this same motley gentleman thou art so 
fond to brother? What views have we to expect but 
instant storm?” 

“To the battlements, then,” said De Bracy; “when 
didst thou ever see me the graver for the thoughts of 
battle? Call the Templar yonder, and let him fight 
but half so well for his life as he has done for his 
Order.—Make thou to the walls thyself with thy huge 
body.—Let me do my poor endeavor in my own way, 
and I tell thee the Saxon outlaws may as well attempt 
to scale the clouds,, as the castle of Torquilstone; or, if 
you will treat with the banditti, why not employ the 


IVANHOE 


353 


lediation of this worthy franklin, who seems in such 
eep contemplation of the wine-flagon?—Here, Saxon,” 
e continued, addressing Athelstane, and handing the 
up to him, “rinse thy throat with that noble liquor, 
nd rouse up thy soul to say what thou wilt do for thy 
berty.” 

“What a man of mold may,” answered Athelstane, 
providing it be what a man of manhood ought.— 
)ismiss me free, with my companions, and I will pay 

ransom of a thousand marks.” 

“And wilt moreover assure us the retreat of that 
cum of mankind who are swarming around the castle, 
ontrary to God’s peace and the king’s?” said Front- 
le-Bceuf. 

“In so far as I can,” answered Athelstane, “I will 
withdraw them; and I fear not but that my father 
Cedric will do his best to assist me.” 

“We are agreed then,” said Front-de-Bceuf—“thou 
md they are to be set at freedom, and peace is to be 
>n both sides, for payment of a thousand marks. It 
s trifling ransom, Saxon, and thou wilt owe gratitude 
o the moderation which accepts of it in exchange of 
raur persons. But mark, this extends not to the 
Tew Isaac.” 

“Nor to the Jew Isaac’s daughter,” said the Tem- 
)lar, who had now joined them. 

“Neither,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “belong to this 
Saxon’s company.” 

“I were unworthy to be called Christian, if they 
lid,” replied Athelstane; “deal with the unbelievers 
is ye list.” 

“Neither does the ransom include the Lady Ro- 
wena,” said De Bracy. “It shall never be said I was 
scared out of a fair prize without striking a blow for 

it.” 

“Neither,” said Front-de-Bceuf, “does our treaty 
refer to this wretched Jester, whom I retain, that I 




354 


Ivan hoe 


may make him an example to every knave who turns 
jest into earnest.” 

“The Lady Rowena,” answered Athelstane, with the 
most steady countenance, “is my affianced bride. I 
will be drawn by wild horses before I consent to part 
with her. The slave Wamba has this day saved the life 
of my father Cedric. I will lose mine ere a hair of his 
head be injured.” 

“Thy affianced bride?—The Lady Rowena the affi¬ 
anced bride of a vassal like thee?” said De Bracy. 
“Saxon, thou dreamest that the days of thy seven 
kingdoms are returned again. I tell thee, the Princes 
of the House of Anjou confer not their wards on 
men of such lineage as thine.” 

“My lineage, proud Norman,” replied Athelstane, 
“is drawn from a source more pure and ancient than 
that of a beggardly Frenchman, whose living is won 
by selling the blood of the thieves whom he assembles 
under his paltry standard. Kings were my ancestors, 
strong in war and wise in council, who every day 
feasted in their hall more hundreds than thou canst 
number individual followers; whose names have been 
sung by minstrels, and their laws recorded by Witten- 
agemotes; whose bones were interred amid the prayers 
of saints, and over whose tombs minsters have been 
builded.” 

“Thou hast it, De Bracy,” said Front-de-Bceuf, well 
pleased with the rebuff which his companion had re¬ 
ceived; “the Saxon hath hit thee fairly.” 

“As fairly as a captive can strike,” said De Bracy 
with apparent carelessness; “for he whose hands are 
tied should have his tongue at freedom.—But thy 
glibness of reply, comrade,” rejoined he, speaking to 
Athelstane, “will not win the freedom of the Lady 
Rowena.” 

To this Athelstane, who had already made a longer 



IVANHOE 


355 


jpeech than was his custom to do on any topic, how- 
wer interesting, returned no answer. The conversation 
vas interrupted by the arrival of a menial, who 
announced that a monk demanded admittance at the 
iostern gate. 

i “In the name of Saint Bennet, the prince of these 
bull-beggars,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “have we a real 
|nonk this time, or another imposter? Search him, 
slaves—for an ye suffer a second imposter to be 
Dalmed upon you, I will have your eyes torn out, and 
lot coals put into the sockets.” 

I “Let me endure the extremity of your anger, my 
ord,” said Giles, “if this be not a real shaveling. 
Four squire Jocelyn knows him well, and will vouch 
iiim to be brother Ambrose, a monk in attendance 
Upon the Prior of Jorvaulx.” 

| “Admit him,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “most likely 
lie brings us news from his jovial master. Surely 
the devil keeps holiday, and the priests are relieved 
from duty, that they are strolling thus wildly through 
the country. Remove these prisoners; and, Saxon, 
think on what thou hast heard.” 

I “I claim,” said Athelstane, “an honorable imprison- 
jment, with due care of my board and of my couch, as 
becomes my rank, and as is due to one who is in treaty 
for ransom. Moreover, I hold him that deems himself 
I the best of you, bound to answer to me with his body 
for this aggression on my freedom. This defiance hath 
jalready been sent to thee by thy sewer; thou underliest 
it, and art bound to answer me. There lies my glove.” 

“I answer not the challenge of my prisoner,” said 
Front-de-Boeuf; “nor shalt thou, Maurice De Bracy. 
—Giles,” he continued, “hang the franklin’s glove 
upon the tine of yonder branched antlers; there shall 
I it remain until he is a free man. Should he then 
| presume to demand it, or to affirm he was unlawfully 
made my prisoner, by the belt of Saint Christopher, 




856 


Ivan hoe 


he will speak to one who hath never refused to meet 
a foe on foot or on horseback, alone or with his vas¬ 
sals at his back!” 

The Saxon prisoners were accordingly removed, 
just as they introduced the monk Ambrose, who ap¬ 
peared to be in great perturbation. 

“This is the real Deus vobiscum ,” 1 said Wamba, as 
he passed the reverend brother; “the others were but 
counterfeits.” 

“Holy mother!” said the monk, as he addressed 
the assembled knights, “I am at last safe and in Christ¬ 
ian keeping!” 

“Safe thou art,” replied De Bracy; “and for Christ¬ 
ianity, here is the stout Baron Reginald Front-de- 
Boeuf, whose utter abomination is a Jew, and the 
Good Knight Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose 
trade is to slay Saracens. If these are not good marks 
of Christianity, I khow no other which they bear about 
them.” 

“Ye are friends and allies of our reverend father 
in God, Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx,” said the monk, 
without noticing the tone of De Bracy’s reply; “ye 
owe him aid both by knightly faith and holy charity; 
for what saith the blessed Saint Augustine , 2 3 in his 
treatise De Civitate Dei —” 

“What saith the devil!” interrupted Front-de- 
Bceuf; “or rather what dost thou say, Sir Priest? 
We have little time to hear texts from the holy fath¬ 
ers.” 

u Sancta Marial ”* ejaculated father Ambrose, 
“how prompt to ire are these unhallowed laymen!— 
But be it known to you, brave knights, that certain 

’God be with you. 

2 One of the most noted Early Fathers. His best known 
work was ‘ The City of God,” 

3 Holy Mary. 



IVANHOE 


357 


murderous caitiffs, casting behind them fear of God, 
and reverence of his church, and not regarding the 
bull of the holy see, Si quis, suadente Diabolo 1 —” 

“Brother priests,” said the Templar, “all this we 
know or guess at—tell us plainly, is thy master, the 
Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?” 

“Surely,” said Ambrose, “he is in hands of the 
men of Belial , 2 infesters of these woods, and con¬ 
temners of the holy text, ‘Touch not mine anointed, and 
do my prophets naught of evil/ ” 3 

“Here is a new argument for our swords, sirs,” 
said Front-de-Boeuf, turning to his companions; “and 
so, instead of reaching us any assistance, the Prior 
of Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? A man is 
well helped of these lazy churchmen when he hath 
most to do!—But speak out, priest, and say at once, 
what doth thy master expect from us?” 

“So please you,” said Ambrose, “violent hands 
having been imposed on my reverend superior, con¬ 
trary to the holy ordinance which I did already quote, 
and the men of Belial having rifled his mails and 
budgets, and stripped him of two hundred marks of 
pure refined gold, they do yet demand of him a large 
sum besides, ere they will suffer him to depart from 
their uncircumcised hands. Wherefore the reverend 
father in God prays you, as his dear friends, to rescue 
him, either by paying down the ransom at which they 
hold him, or by force of arms, at your best discre¬ 
tion.” 

“The foul fiend quell the Prior!” said Front-de- 
Bceuf; “his morning’s draught has been a deep one. 
When did thy master hear of a Norman baron un¬ 
buckling his purse to relieve a churchman, whose 


*“If any one under the Devil’s guidance . 1 
•Sons of the Devil. 

•Psalms OV, 15. 







358 


I VAN HOE 


bags are ten times as weighty as ours ?—And how can 
we do aught by valor to free him, that are cooped up 
here by ten times our number, and expect an assault 
every moment?” 

“And that was what I was about to tell you,” said 
the monk, “had your hastiness allowed me time. But, 
God help me, I am old, and these foul onslaughts dis¬ 
tract an aged man’s brain. Nevertheless, it is of 
verity that they assemble a camp, and raise a bank 
against the walls of this castle.” 

“To the battlements!” cried De Bracy, “and let us 
mark what these knaves do without;” and so saying, 
he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of 
bartizan or projecting balcony, and immediately called 
from thence to those in the apartment— “Saint 
Dennis, but the old monk hath brought true tidings !-— 
They bring forward mantelets 1 and pavisses, and the 
archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a dark 
cloud before a hailstorm.” 

Reginald Front-de-Bceuf also looked out upon the 
field, and immediately snatched his bugle; and, after 
winding a long and loud blast, commanded his men 
to their posts on the walls. 

“De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls 
are lowest. Noble Bois-Guilbert, thy trade hath well 
taught thee how to attack and defend, look thou to 
the western side—I myself will take post at the bar- 

^‘Temporary and movable defenses formed of planks, 
under cover of which the assailants advanced to the at¬ 
tack of fortified places of old. Pavisses were a species of 
large shields covering the whole person, employed on the 
same occasions.” (Scott’s note.) “The bolt was the ar¬ 
row peculiarly fitted to the cross bow, as that of the 
long-bow was called a shaft. Hence the English proverb— 
‘I will either make a shaft, or bolt of it,* signifying a de¬ 
termination to make one use or other of the thing r spoken 
of” (Scott’s note.) 





IVANHOE 


359 


ifican . 1 Yet, do not confine your exertions to any one 
>pot, noble friends!—we must this day be everywhere, 
md multiply ourselves, were it possible, so as to carry 
>y our presence succor and relief wherever the attack 
s hottest. Our numbers are few, but activity and 
Courage may supply that defect, since we have only 
;o do with rascal clowns.” 

“But, noble knights,” exclaimed Father Ambrose, 
imidst the bustle and confusion occasioned by the 
preparations for defense, “will none of ye hear the 
nessage of the reverend father in God, Aymer, Prior 
}f Jorvaulx?—I beseech thee to hear me, noble Sir 
Reginald!” 

“Go patter thy petitions to heaven,” said the fierce 
Norman, “for we on earth have no time to listen to 
them.—Ho! there, Anselm! see that seething pitch 
land oil are ready to pour on the heads of these au¬ 
dacious traitors. Look that the cross bowmen lack 
not bolts. Fling abroad my banner with the old bull’s 
head—the knaves shall soon find with whom they have 
to do this day!” 

“But, noble sir,” continued the monk, persevering 
in his endeavors to draw attention, consider my vow 
of obedience, and let me discharge myself of my su¬ 
perior’s errand.” 

“Away with this prating dotard,” said Front-de- 
Bceuf, “lock him up in the chapel, to tell his beads till 
the broil be over. It will be a new thing to the saints 
in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have not 


^‘Every Gothic castle and city had, beyond the outer walls, 
a fortification composed of palisades, called the barriers, 
which were often the scene of severe skirmishes, as these 
must necessarily be carried before the walls themselves 
could be approached. Many of those valiant feats of arms 
which adorn the chivalrous pages of Froissart took place 
at the barriers of besieged places.” (Scott’s note.) 





360 


Ivan hoe 


been so honored, I trow, since they were cut out o: 
stone.” 

“Blaspheme not the holy saints, Sir Reginald/ 
said De Bracy; “we shall have need of their aid to-daj 
before yon rascal rout disband.” 

“I expect little aid from their hand,” said Front-de 
Boeuf, “unless we were to hurl them from the battle 
ments on the heads of the villains. There is a hug( 
lumbering Saint Christopher yonder, sufficient to beai 
a whole company to the earth.” 

The Templar had in the meantime been looking ow 
on the proceedings of the besiegers, with rather more 
attention than the brutal Front-de-Bceuf or his giddj 
companion. 

“By the faith of mine order,” he said, “these mei 
approach with more touch of discipline than coulc 
have been judged, however they come by it. See 
ye how dexterously they avail themselves of everj 
cover which a tree or bush affords, and shun exposing 
themselves to the shot of our crossbows ? I spy neithei 
banner nor pennon among them, and yet will I gage 
my golden chain, that they are led on by some noble 
knight or gentleman, skillful in the practice of wars/ 

“I espy him,” said De Bracy; “I see the waving of a 
knight’s crest, and the gleam of his armor. See yor 
tall man in the black mail, who is busied marshaling 
the farther troop to the rascaille yeoman—by Sainl 
Dennis, I hold him to be the same whom we called Le 
Noir Faineant, who overthrew thee, Front-de-Boeuf, 
in the lists of Ashby.” 

“So much the better,” said Front-de-Bceuf, “that 
he comes here to give me my revenge. Some hilding 
fellow he must be, who dared not stay to assert his 
claim to the tourney prize which chance had assigned 
him. I should in vain have sought for him where 
knights and nobles seek their foes, and right glad 


IVANHOE 


361 


am I he hath here shown himself among yon villain 
yeomanry.” 

The demonstrations of the enemy’s immediate ap¬ 
proach cut off all further discourse. Each knight 
repaired to his post, and at the head of the few fol¬ 
lowers whom they were able to muster, and who were 
in numbers inadequate to defend the whole extent of 
the walls, they awaited with calm determination the 
threatened assault. 




CHAPTER XXVIII 


This wandering race, sever’d from other men, 

Boast yet their intercourse with human arts; 

The seas, the woods, the deserts, which they haunt. 

Find them acquainted with their secret treasures; 

And unregarded herbs, and flowers, and blossoms, , 

Display undreamt-of powers when gather’d by them. 

The tfeic. 

Our history must needs retrograde for the space of 
a few pages, to inform the reader of certain passages 
material to his understanding the rest of this impor¬ 
tant narrative. His own intelligence may indeed 
have easily anticipated that, when Ivanhoe sunk down, 
and seemed abandoned by all the world, it was the im¬ 
portunity of Rebecca which prevailed on her father to 
have the gallant young warrior transported from the 
lists to the house which for the time the Jews inhab¬ 
ited in the suburbs of Ashby. 

It would not have been difficult to have persuaded 
Isaac to this step in any other circumstances, for his 
disposition was kind and grateful. But he had also 
the prejudices and scrupulous timidity of his per¬ 
secuted people, and those were to be conquered. 

'‘Holy Abraham!” he exclaimed, “he is a good 
youth, and my heart bleeds to see the gore trickle 
down his rich embroidered hacqueton, and his corse¬ 
let of goodly price—but to carry him to our house!— 
damsel, hast thou well considered?—he is a Christ- 
tian, and by our law we may not deal with the 
stranger and Gentile, save for the advantage of our 
commerce.” 

“Speak not so, my dear father,” replied Rebecca; 
“we ma y not indeed mix with them in banquet and 

Question: How many different distinct points of inter¬ 
est are brought out in this last chapter? 




IVANHOE 


363 


in jollity; but in wounds and in misery, the Gentile 
becometh the Jew’s brother.” 

“I would I knew what the Rabbi Jacob Ben Tudela 
would opine on it,” replied Isaac;—“nevertheless, 
the good youth must not bleed to death. Let Seth 
and Reuben bear him to Ashby.” 

“Nay, let them place him in my litter,” said Re¬ 
becca; “I will mount one of the palfreys.” 

“That were to expose thee to the gaze of those 
dogs of Ishmael and of Edom ” 1 2 whispered Isaac, with 
a suspicious glance towards the crowd of knights and 
squires. But Rebecca was already busied in carrying 
her charitable purpose into effect, and listed not what 
j he said, until Isaac, seizing the sleeve of her mantle, 
again exclaimed, in a hurried voice—“Beard of Aaron " 1 
—what if the youth perish!—if he die in our custody, 
shall we not be held guilty of his blood, and be torn 
to pieces by the multitude?” 

“He will not die, my father,” said Rebecca, gently 
extricating herself from the grasp of Isaac—“he will 
not die unless we abandon him; and if so, we are indeed 
answerable for his blood to God and to man. 

“Nay,” said Isaac, releasing his hold, “it grieveth 
me as much to see the drops of his blood, as if they 
were so many golden byzants from mine own puise, 
and I well know, that the lessons of Miriam, daugh¬ 
ter of the Rabbi Manasses of Byzantium, whose soul 
is in Paradise, have made thee skillful in the art of 
healing, and that thou knowest the craft of herbs, 
and the force of elixirs . 3 Therefore, do as thy mind 
giveth thee—thou art a good damsel, a blessing, and 


*A country in Palestine hostile to Israel. 

2 Psalm CXXXIII, 2. ‘ . <wi 

3 An imaginary cordial supposed to be capable of sustain¬ 
ing life indefinitely. 




364 


IVANHOE 


a crown, and a song of rejoicing unto me and unto 
my house, and unto the people of my fathers.” 

The apprehensions of Isaac, however, were not ill 
founded; and the generous and grateful benevolence 
of his daughter exposed her, on her return to Ashby, 
to the unhallowed gaze of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. 
The Templar twice passed and repassed them on the 
road, fixing his bold and ardent look on the beautiful 
Jewess; and we have already seen the consequences 
of the admiration which her charms excited, when 
accident threw her into the power of that unprin¬ 
cipled voluptuary. 

Rebecca lost no time in causing the patient to be 
transported to their temporary dwelling, and pro¬ 
ceeded with her own hands to examine and to bind 
up his wounds. The youngest reader of romances 
and romantic ballads, must recollect how often the 
females, during the dark ages, as they are called, 
were initiated into the mysteries of surgery, and 
how frequently the gallant knight submitted the 
wounds of his person to her cure, whose eyes had yet 
more deeply penetrated his heart. 

But the Jews, both male and female, possessed and 
practiced the medical science in all its branches, and 
the monarchs^and powerful barons of the time fre¬ 
quently committed themselves to the charge of some 
experienced sage among this despised people, when 
wounded or in sickness. The aid of the Jewish 
physicians was not the less eagerly sought after, 
though a general belief prevailed among the Chris¬ 
tians, that the Jewish Rabbin were deeply acquainted 
with the occult sciences, and particularly with the 
cabalistical art which had its name and origin in 
the studies of the sages of Israel. Neither did the 
Rabbins disown such acquaintance with supernat¬ 
ural arts, which added nothing (for what could add 


lVANHOE 


365 


aught?) to the hatred with which their nation was 
regarded, while it diminished the contempt with which 
that malevolence was mingled. A Jewish magician 
might be the subject of equal abhorrence with a Jewish 
usurer, but he could not be equally despised. It is 
besides probable, considering the wonderful cures they 
are said to have performed, that the Jews possessed 
some secrets of the healing art peculiar to themselves, 
and which, with the exclusive spirit arising out of 
their condition, they took great care to conceal from 
the Christians amongst whom they dwelt. 

The beautiful Rebecca had been heedfully brought 
up in all the knowledge proper to her nation, which 
her apt and powerful mind had retained, arranged, 
and enlarged, in the course of a progress beyond her 
years, her sex, and even the age in which she lived. 
Her knowledge of medicine and of the healing art 
had been acquired under an aged Jewess, the daugh¬ 
ter of one of their most celebrated doctors, who loved 
Rebecca as her own child, and was believed to have 
communicated to her secrets, which had been left to 
herself by her sage father at the same time, and 
under the same circumstances. The fate of Miriam 
had indeed been to fall a sacrifice to the fanaticism 
of the times; but her secrets had survived in her apt 
pupil. 

Rebecca, thus endowed with knowledge as with 
beauty, was universally revered and admired by her 
own tribe, who almost regarded her as one of those 
gifted women mentioned in the sacred history. Her 
rather himself, out of reverence for her talents, 
which involuntarily mingled itself with his unbounded 
affection, permitted the maiden a greater liberty than 
was usually indulged to those of her sex by the habits 
of her people, and was, as we have just seen, fre¬ 
quently guided by her opinion, even in preference to 
his own. 


366 


Ivan hoe 


When Ivanhoe reached the habitation of Isaac, he 
was still in a state of unconsciousness, owing to the 
profuse loss of blood which had taken place during 
his exertions in the lists. Rebecca examined the 
wound, and having applied to it such vulnerary reme¬ 
dies as her art prescribed, informed her father that 
if fever could be averted, of which the great bleeding 
rendered her little apprehensive, and if the healing 
balsam of Miriam retained its virtue, there was noth¬ 
ing to fear for his guest’s life, and that he might 
with safety travel to York with them on the ensuing 
day. Isaac looked a little blank at this annunciation. 
His charity would willingly have stopped short at 
Ashby, or at most would have left the wounded Chris¬ 
tian to be tended in the house where he was residing 
at present, with an assurance to the Hebrew to whom 
it belonged, that all expenses should be duly dis¬ 
charged. To this, however, Rebecca opposed many 
reasons, of which we shall only mention two that had 
peculiar weight with Isaac. The one was, that she 
would on no account put the phial of precious balsam 
into the hands of another physician even of her own 
tribe, lest that valuable mystery should be discovered; 
the other, that this wounded knight, Wilfred of Ivan¬ 
hoe, was an intimate favorite of Richard Coeur-de 
Lion, and that, in case the monarch should return, 
Isaac, who had supplied his brother John with treasure 
to prosecute his rebellious purposes, would stand in no 
small need of a powerful protector who enjoyed 
Richard’s favor. 

“Thou art speaking but sooth, Rebecca,” said Isaac, 
giving way to these weighty arguments—“it were an 
offending Heaven to betray the secrets of the blessed 
Miriam; for the good which Heaven giveth, is not 
rashly to be squandered upon others, whether it be 
talents of gold and shekels of silver, or whether it be 
the secret mysteries of a wise physician—assuredly 


IVANHOE 


367 


they should be preserved to those to whom Providence 
hath vouchsafed them. And him whom the Nazarenes 
of England call the Lion’s Heart, assuredly it were 
better for me to fall into the hands of a strong lion 
of Idumea than into his, if he shall have got assurance 
of my dealing with his brother. Wherefore I will lend 
ear to thy counsel, and this youth shall journey with 
us unto York, and our house shall be as a home to 
him until his wounds shall be healed. And if he of 
the Lion Heart shall return to the land, as is now 
noised abroad, then shall this Wilfred of Ivanhoe be 
unto me as a wall of defense, when the king’s dis¬ 
pleasure shall burn high against thy father. And if 
he doth not return, this Wilfred may natheless repay 
us our charges when he shall gain treasure by the 
I strength of his spear and of his sword, even as he did 
yesterday and this day also. For the youth is a good 
youth, and keepeth the day which he appointeth, and 
| restoreth that which he borrowed, and succoreth the 
Israelite, even the child of my father’s house, when he 
is encompassed by strong thieves and sons of Belial.” 

It was not until evening was nearly closed that 
Ivanhoe was restored to consciousness of his situa¬ 
tion. He awoke from a broken slumber, under the con¬ 
fused impressions which are naturally attendant on 
the recovery from a state of insensibility. He was un¬ 
able for some time to recall exactly to memory the cir¬ 
cumstances which had preceded his fall in the lists, or 
to make out any connected chain of the events in which 
he had been engaged upon the yesterday. A sense 
of wounds and injury, joined to great weakness and 
exhaustion, was mingled with the recollection of blows 
dealt and received, of steeds rushing upon each other, 
overthrowing and overthrown—of shouts and clash¬ 
ing of arms, and all the heady tumult of a confused 
fight. An effort to draw aside the curtain of his couch 




368 


IVANITOE 


was in some degree successful, although rendered 
difficult by the pain of his wound. 

To his great surprise he found himself in a room 
magnificently furnished, but having cushions instead 
of chairs to rest upon, and in other respects partaking 
so much of oriental costume, that he began to doubt 
whether he had not, during his sleep, been tran¬ 
sported back again to the land of Palestine. The 
impression was increased, when, the tapestry being 
drawn aside, a female form, dressed in a rich habit, 
which partook more of the Eastern taste than that 
of Europe, glided through the door, which it con¬ 
cealed, and was followed by a swarthy domestic. 

As the wounded knight was about to address this 
fair apparition, she imposed silence by placing her 
slender finger upon her ruby lips, while the attend¬ 
ant, approaching him, proceeded to uncover Ivanhoe’s 
side, and the lovely Jewess satisfied herself that the 
bandage was in its place, and the wound doing well. 
She performed her task with a graceful and dignified 
simplicity and modesty, which might, even in more 
civilized days, have served to redeem it from whatever 
might seem repugnant to female delicacy. The idea 
of so young and beautiful a person engaged in at¬ 
tendance on a sick-bed, or in dressing the wound of 
one of a different sex, was melted away and lost in 
that of a beneficent being contributing her effectual 
aid to relieve pain, and to avert the stroke of death. 
Rebecca’s few and brief directions were given in the 
Hebrew language to the old domestic; and he, who had 
been frequently her assistant in similar cases, obeyed 
them without reply. 

The accents of an unknown tongue, however harsh 
they might have sounded when uttered by another, 
had, coming from the beautiful Rebecca, the romantic 
and pleasing effect which fancy ascribes to the 
charms pronounced by some beneficent fairy, unin- 


IVANHOE 


369 


telligible, indeed, to the ear, but, from the sweetness 
of utterance, and benignity of aspect, which accom¬ 
panied them, touching and affecting to the heart. 
Without making an attempt at further question, Ivan- 
hoe suffered them in silence to take the measures 
they thought most proper for his recovery; and it was 
not until those were completed, and this kind phy¬ 
sician about to retire, that his curiosity could no lon¬ 
ger be suppressed.—“Gentle maiden/’ he began in the 
Arabian tongue, with which his Eastern travels had 
rendered him familiar, and which he thought most 
likely to be understood by the turban’d and caftan’d 1 
damsel who stood before him—“I pray you,, gentle 
maiden, of your courtesy-” 

But here he was interruped by his fair physician, 
a smile which she could scarce suppress dimpling for 
! an instant a face, whose general expression was that 
of contemplative melancholy. “I am of England, Sir 
Knight, and speak the English tongue, although my 
dress and my lineage belong to another climate/’ 

“Noble damsel,”—again the Knight of Ivanhoe be¬ 
gan; and again Rebecca hastened to interrupt him. 

“Bestow not on me, Sir Knight,” she said, “the 
epithet of noble. It is well you should speedily know 
that your handmaiden is a poor Jewess, the daughter 
of that Isaac of York, to whom you were so lately a 
good and kind lord. It well becomes him, and those 
of his household, to render to you such careful ten¬ 
dance as your present state necessarily demands.” 

I know not whether the fair Rowena would have 
been altogether satisfied with the species of emotion 
with which her devoted knight had hitherto gazed 
on the beautiful features, and fair form, and lustrous 
eyes, of the lovely Rebecca; eyes whose brilliancy was 

’Dressed in caftan, a long Turkish undercoat with long 
sleeves and sash. 






370 


I VAN HOE 


shaded, and, as it were, mellowed, by the fringe of 
her long silken eyelashes, and which a minstrel would 
have compared to the evening star darting its rays 
through a bower of jessamine. But Ivanhoe was too 
good a Catholic to retain the same class of feelings 
towards a Jewess. This Rebecca had foreseen, and 
for this very purpose she had hastened to mention 
her father’s name and lineage; yet—for the fair and 
wise daughter of Isaac was not without a touch of 
female weakness—she could not but sigh internally 
when the glance of respectful admiration, not alto¬ 
gether unmixed with tenderness, with which Ivanhoe 
had hitherto regarded his unknown benefactress, was 
exchanged at once for a manner cold, composed, and 
collected, and fraught with no deeper feeling than 
that which expressed a grateful sense of courtesy re¬ 
ceived from an unexpected quarter, and from one 
of an inferior race. It was not that Ivanhoe’s former 
carriage expressed more than that general devotional 
homage which youth always pays to beauty; yet it 
was mortifying that one word should operate as a 
spell to remove poor Rebecca, who could not be sup¬ 
posed altogether ignorant of her title to such homage, 
into a degraded class, to whom it could not be honor¬ 
ably rendered. 

But the gentleness and candor of Rebecca’s nature 
imputed no fault to Ivanhoe for sharing in the uni¬ 
versal prejudices of his age and religion. On the 
contrary, the fair Jewess, though sensible her patient 
now regarded her as one of a race of reprobation, 
with whom it was disgraceful to hold any beyond the 
most necessary intercourse, ceased not to pay the 
same patient and devoted attention to his safety and 
convalescence. She informed him of the necessity 
they were under of removing to York, and of her 
father’s resolution to transport him thither, and tend 


IVANHOE 


371 


him in his own house until his health should be re¬ 
stored. Ivanhoe expressed great repugnance to this 
plan, which he grounded on unwillingness to give 
farther trouble to his benefactors. 

“Wah there not/’ he said, “in Ashby, or near it, 
some Saxon franklin, or even some wealthy peasant, 
who would endure the burden of a wounded country¬ 
man’s residence with him until he should be again 
able to bear his armor?—Was there no convent of 
Saxon endowment, where he could be received?—Or 
could he not be transported as far as Burton, where 
he was sure to find hospitality with Waltheoff, the 
Abbot of St. Withold’s, to whom he was related?” 

“Any, the worst of these harborages,” said Re¬ 
becca, with a melancholy smile, “would unquestion¬ 
ably be more fitting for your residence than the abode 
of a despised Jew; yet, Sir Knight, unless you would 
dismiss your physician, you cannot change your 
lodging. Our nation, as you well know, can cure 
wounds, though we deal not in inflicting them; and 
in our own family, in particular, are secrets which 
have been handed down since the days of Solomon, 
and of which you have already experienced the ad¬ 
vantages. No Nazarene—I crave your forgiveness, 
Sir Knight—no Christian leech, within the four seas 
of Britain, could enable you to bear your corselet 
within a month.” 

“And how soon wilt thou enable me to brook it?” 
said Ivanhoe, impatiently. 

“Within eight days, if thou wilt be patient and 
conformable to my directions,” replied Rebecca. 

“By Our Blessed Lady,” said Wilfred, “if it be 
not a sin to name her here, it is no time for me or 
any true knight to be bedridden; and if thou accom¬ 
plish thy promise, maiden, I will pay thee with my 
casque full of crowns, come by them as I may.” 


372 


Ivan hoe 


“I will accomplish my promise,” said Rebecca, 
“and thou shalt bear thine armor on the eighth day 
from hence, if thou wilt grant me but one boon in the 
stead of the silver thou dost promise me.” 

“If it be within my power, and such as a true 
Christian knight may yield to one of thy people,” 
replied Ivanhoe, “I will grant thy boon blithely and 
thankfully.” 

“Nay,” answered Rebecca, “I will but pray of thee 
to believe henceforward that a Jew may do good ser¬ 
vice to a Christian, without desiring other guerdon 
than the blessing of the Great Father who made both 
Jew and Gentile.” 

“It were sin to doubt it, maiden,” replied Ivanhoe; 
“and I repose myself on thy skill without further 
scruple or question, well trusting you will enable me to 
bear my corselet on the eighth day. And now, my kind 
leech, let me inquire the news abroad.—What of the 
noble Saxon Cedric and his household?—what of the 
lovely Lady”—He stopped, as if unwilling to speak 
Rowena’s name in the house of a Jew—“Of her, I 
mean, who was named Queen of the tournament?” 

“And who was selected by you, Sir Knight, to hold 
that dignity, with judgment which was admired as 
much as your valor,” replied Rebecca. 

The blood which Ivanhoe had lost did not prevent a 
flush from crossing his cheek, feeling that he had in¬ 
cautiously betrayed his deep interest in Rowena by 
the awkward attempt he had made to conceal it. 

“It was less of her I would speak,” said he, “than 
of Prince John; and I would fain know somewhat of 
a faithful squire, and why he now attends me not.” 

“Let me use my authority as a leech,” answered 
Rebecca, “and enjoin you to keep silence, and avoid 
agitating reflections, whilst I apprise you of what you 
desire to know. Prince John hath broken off the 




IVANHOE 


373 


tournament, and set forward in all haste towards 
York, with the nobles, knights, and churchmen of his 
party, after collecting such sums as they could wring, 
by fair means or foul, from those who are esteemed 
the wealthy of the land. It is said he designs to as¬ 
sume his brother’s crown.” 

“Not without a blow struck in its defense,” said 
Ivanhoe, raising himself upon the couch, “if there 
were but one true subject in England. I will fight 
for Richard’s title with the best of them—ay, one or 
two, in his just quarrel!” 

“But that you may be able to do so,” said Rebecca, 
touching his shoulder with her hand, “you must now 
observe my directions, and remain quiet.” 

“True, maiden,” said Ivanhoe, “as quiet as these 
disquieted times will permit.—And of Cedric and his 
household?” 

“His steward came but a brief while since,” said 
the Jewess, “panting with haste, to ask my father 
for certain moneys, the price of wool, the growth of 
Cedric’s flocks, and from him I learned that Cedric 
and Athelstane of Coningsburgh had left Prince 
John’s lodging in high displeasure, and were about 
i to set forth on their return homeward.” 

“Went any lady with them to the banquet?” said 
Wilfred. 

“The Lady Rowena,” said Rebecca, answering the 
question with more precision than it had been asked— 
“The Lady Rowena went not to the Prince’s feast, 
and, as the steward reported to us, she is now on her 
journey back to Rotherwood, with her guardian 
Cedric. And touching your faithful squire Gurth—” 

“Ha!” exclaimed the knight, “knowest thou his 
name?—But thou dost,” he immediately added, “and 
well thou mayest, for it was from thy hand, and, as 
I am now convinced, from thine own generosity of 



374 


Ivan hoe 


spirit, that he received but yesterday a hundred zec- 
chins.” 

“Speek not of that,” said Rebecca, blushing deeply; 
“I see how easy it is for the tongue to betray what 
the heart would gladly conceal.” 

“But this sum of gold,” said Ivanhoe, gravely, “my 
honor is concerned in repaying it to your father.” 

“Let it be as thou wilt,” said Rebecca, “when eight 
days have passed away; but think not, and speak not 
now, of aught that may retard thy recovery.” 

“Be it so, kind maiden,” said Ivanhoe; “I were 
most ungrateful to dispute thy commands. But one 
word of the fate of poor Gurth, and I have done with 
questioning thee.” 

“I grieve to tell thee, Sir Knight,” answered the 
Jewess, “that he is in custody by the order of Cedric.” 
—And then, observing the distress which her com¬ 
munication gave to Wilfred, she instantly added, “But 
the steward Oswald said, that if nothing occurred to 
renew his master’s displeasure against him, he was 
sure that Cedric would pardon Gurth, a faithful serf, 
and one who stood high in favor, and who had but 
committed this error out of the love which he bore 
to Cedric’s son. And he said, moreover, that he and 
his comrades, and especially Wamba the Jester, were 
resolved to warn Gurth to make his escape by the 
way, in case Cedric’s ire against him could not be 
mitigated.” 

“Would to God they may keep their purpose!” said 
Ivanhoe; “but it seems as if I were destined to bring 
ruin on whomsoever hath shown kindness to me. My 
king, by whom I was honored and distinguished, thou 
seest that the brother most indebted to him is rais- 
ing his arms to grasp his crown;—my regard hath 
brought restraint and trouble on the fairest of her 
sex;—and now my father in his mood may slay this 



IVANHOE 375 

poor bondsman, but for his love and loyal service to 
me!—Thou seest, maiden, what an ill-fated wretch 
thou dost labor to assist; be wise, and let me go, ere 
the misfortunes which track my footsteps like slot- 
hounds, shall involve thee also in their pursuit.” 

“Nay,” said Rebecca, “thy weakness and thy grief, 
Sir Knight, make thee miscalculate the purposes of 
Heaven. Thou hast been restored to thy country 
when it most needed the assistance of a strong hand 
and a true heart, and thou hast humbled the pride of 
thine enemies and those of thy king, when their horn 1 
was most highly exalted; and for the evil which thou 
hast sustained, seest thou not that Heaven has raised 
thee a helper and a physician, even among the most 
despised of the land?—Therefore be of good courage, 
and trust that thou art preserved for some marvel 
which thine arm shall work before this people. Adieu 
—and having taken the medicine which I shall send 
thee by the hand of Reuben, compose thyself again to 
rest, that thou mayest be the more able to endure the 
journey on the succeeding day.” 

Ivanhoe was convinced by the reasoning, and 
obeyed the directions of Rebecca. The draught which 
Reuben administered was of a sedative and narcotic 
quality, and secured the patient sound and undis¬ 
turbed slumbers. In the morning his kind physician 
found him entirely free from feverish symptoms and 
fit to undergo the fatigue, of a journey. 

He was deposited in the horse-litter which had 
brought him from the lists, and every precaution 
taken for his traveling with ease. In one circum¬ 
stance only even the entreaties of Rebecca were un¬ 
able to secure sufficient attention to the accommoda¬ 
tion of the wounded knight. Isaac, like the enriched 


symbol of power. Psalms CXII, 9. 







376 


IVANIIOE 


traveler of Juvenal’s 1 tenth satire, had ever the fear of 
robbery before his eyes, conscious that he would be 
alike accounted fair game by the marauding Nor¬ 
man noble, and by the Saxon outlaw. He therefore 
journeyed at a great rate, and made short halts, and 
shorter repasts, so that he passed by Cedric and 
Athelstane, who had several hours the start of him, 
but who had been delayed by their protracted feast¬ 
ing at the convent of Saint Withold’s. Yet such was 
the virtue of Miriam’s balsam, or such the strength 
of Ivanhoe’s constitution, that he did not sustain from 
the hurried journey that inconvenience which his 
kind physician had apprehended. 

In another point of view, however, the Jew’s haste 
proved somewhat more than good speed. The rapid¬ 
ity with which he insisted on traveling, bred several 
disputes between him and the party whom he had 
hired to attend him as a guard. These men were 
Saxons, and not free by any means from the national 
love of ease and good living which the Normans 
stigmatized as laziness and gluttony. Reversing 
Shylock’s position, they had accepted the employ¬ 
ment in hopes of feeding upon the wealthy Jew, and 
were very much displeased when they found themselves 
disappointed, by the rapidity with which he insisted 
on their proceeding. They remonstrated also upon 
the risk of damage to their horses by these forced 
marches. Finally, there arose betwixt Isaac and his 
satellites a deadly feud, concerning the quantity of 
wine and ale to be allowed for consumption at each 
meal. And thus it happened, that when the alarm 
of danger approached, and that which Isaac feared 
was likely to come upon him, he was deserted by the 
discontented mercenaries on whose protection he had 


‘Juvenal, a famous Roman poet, 38 to 120. 




IVANHOE 


377 


relied, without using the means necessary to secure 
their attachment. 

In this deplorable condition the Jew, with his 
daughter and his wounded patient, were found by 
Cedric, as has already been noticed, and soon after¬ 
wards fell into the power of De Bracy and his con¬ 
federates. Little notice was at first taken of the 
! horse-litter, and it might have remained behind but 
i for the curiosity of De Bracy, who looked into it 
under the impression that it might contain the ob- 
jject of his enterprise, for Rowena had not unveiled 
herself. But De Bracy’s astonishment was consid¬ 
erable, when he discovered that the litter contained 
a wounded man, who, conceiving himself to have 
fallen into the power of Saxon outlaws, with whom 
i his name might be a protection for himself and his 
j friends, frankly avowed himself to be Wilfred of 
| Ivanhoe. 

The ideas of chivalrous honor, which, amidst his 
wildness and levity, never utterly abandoned De 
Bracy, prohibited him from doing the knight any 
injury in his defenseless condition, and equally in¬ 
terdicted his betraying him to Front-de-Bceuf, who 
would have had no scruples to put to death, under 
any circumstances, the rival claimant of the fief of 
Ivanhoe. On the other hand, to liberate a suitor 
preferred by the Lady Rowena, as the events of the 
tournament, and indeed Wilfred’s previous banish¬ 
ment from his father’s house, had made matter of no¬ 
toriety, was a pitch far above the flight of De Bracy’s 
generosity. A middle course betwixt good and evil 
was all which he found himself capable of adopting, 
and he commanded two of his own squires to keep 
close by the litter, and to suffer no one to approach 

Question : Where did you find out before that De Bracy 
already knew about Ivanhoe? 







378 


Ivan hoe 


it. If questioned, they were directed by their master 
to say, that the empty litter of the Lady Rowena was 
employed to transport one of their comrades who had 
been wounded in the scuffle. On arriving at Torquil- 
stone, while the Knight Templar and the lord of that 
castle were each intent upon their own schemes, the 
one on the Jew’s treasure, and the other on his daugh¬ 
ter, De Bracy’s squires conveyed Ivanhoe, still un¬ 
der the name of a wounded comrade, to a distant 
apartment. This explanation was accordingly re¬ 
turned by these men to Front-de-Boeuf, when he ques¬ 
tioned them why they did not make for the battle¬ 
ments upon the alarm. 

“A wounded companion!” he replied in great wrath 
and astonishment. “No wonder that churls and yeo¬ 
men wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer be¬ 
fore castles, and that clowns and swineherds send de¬ 
fiances to nobles, since men-at-arms have turned sick 
men’s nurses, and Free Companions are grown keep¬ 
ers of dying folk’s curtains, when the castle is about 
to be assailed.—To the ^battlements, ye loitering vil¬ 
lains!” he exclaimed, raising his stentorian voice till 
the arches around rung again, “to the battlements, or 
I will splinter your bones with this truncheon!” 

The men sulkily replied, “that they desired noth¬ 
ing better than to go to the battlements, providing 
Front-de-Bceuf would bear them out with their mas¬ 
ter, who had commanded them to tend the dying 
man.” 

“The dying man, knaves!” rejoined the Baron; “I 
promise thee we shall all be dying men an we stand , 
not to it the more stoutly. But I will relieve the 
guard upon this caitiff companion of yours.—Here, 
Urfried—hag—fiend of a Saxon witch—hearest me 
not?—tend me this bedridden fellow, since he must 
heeds be tended, whilst these knaves use their weap- 




IVANHOE 


379 


ons.—Here be two arblasts, 1 comrades, with windlaces 
and quarrels—to the barbican with you, and see you 
drive each bolt through a Saxon brain.” 

The men, who, like most of their description, were 
fond of enterprise and detested inaction, w T ent joy¬ 
fully to the scene of danger as they were commanded, 
and thus the charge of Ivanhoe was transferred to 
Urfried, or Ulrica. But she, whose brain was burn¬ 
ing with remembrance of injuries and with hopes of 
vengeance, was readily induced to devolve upon Re¬ 
becca the care of her patient. 


!“THe arblast was a cross-bow, the windlace the machine 
used in bending that weapon, and the quarrell so called 
from its square or diamond-shaped head, was the bolt 
bolt adapted to it.” (Scott’s note). 





CHAPTER XXIX 


Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier, 
Look on the field, and say how goes the battle. 

Schiller’s Maid of Orleans. 

A moment of peril is often also a moment of open- 
hearted kindness and affection. We are thrown off 
our guard by the general agitation of our feelings, 
and betray the intensity of those which, at more 
tranquil periods, our prudence at least conceals, if it 
cannot altogether suppress them. In finding herself 
once more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was aston¬ 
ished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she 
experienced, even at a time when all around them 
both was danger, if not despair. As she felt his 
pulse, and inquired after his health, there was a soft¬ 
ness in her touch and in her accents, implying a kind¬ 
er interest than she would herself have been pleased 
to have voluntarily expressed. Her voice faltered and 
her hand trembled, and it was only the cold question 
of Ivanhoe, “Is it you, gentle maiden ?” which recalled 
her to herself, and reminded her the sensations which 
she felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh 
escaped, but it was scarce audible; and the questions 
which she asked the knight concerning his state of 
health were put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivan¬ 
hoe answered her hastily that he was, in point of 
health, as well, and better than he could have ex¬ 
pected Thanks,” he said, “dear Rebecca, to thy 
helpful skill.” 

“He calls me dear Rebecca,” said the maiden to 
herself, “but it is in the cold and careless tone which 
ill suits the word. His war-horse—his hunting hound, 
are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!” 

“My mind, gentle maiden,” continued Ivanhoe, “is 
more disturbed by anxiety, than my body with pain, 


IVANHOE 


381 


?rom the speeches of these men who were my ward¬ 
ers just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, 
f I judge aright of the loud hoarse voice which even 
low dispatches them hence on some military duty, 

[ am in the castle of Front-de-Bceuf. If so, how will 
:his end, or how can I protect Rowena and my fath¬ 
er?” 

! “He names not the Jew or Jewess,” said Rebecca, 
internally; “yet what is our portion in him, and how 
justly am I punished by Heaven for letting my 
thoughts dwell upon him!” She hastened after this 
brief self-accusation to give Ivanhoe what informa¬ 
tion she could; but it amounted only to this, that the 
Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron Front-de- 
jBoeuf, were commanders within the castle; that it 
was beleaguered from without, but by whom she knew 
not. She added, that there was a Christian priest 
within the castle who might be possessed of more in¬ 
formation. 

“A Christian priest!” said the knight, joyfully; 
“fetch him hither, Rebecca, if thou canst—say a sick 
man desires his ghostly counsel—say what thou wilt, 
but bring him—something I must do or attempt, but 
how can I determine until I know how matters stand 
without?” 

Rebecca, in compliance with the wishes of Ivanhoe, 
made that attempt to bring Cedric into the wounded 
knight’s chamber, which was defeated as we have al¬ 
ready seen by the interference of Urfried, who had 
I been also on the watch to intercept the supposed 
monk. Rebecca retired to communicate to Ivanhoe 
the result of her errand. 

They had not much leisure to regret the failure of 
this source of intelligence, or to contrive by what 
means it might be supplied; for the noise within the 
castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations which 




382 Ivan hoe 

had been considerable for some time, now increased 
into tenfold bustle and clamor. The heavy, yet hasty 
step of the men-at-arms, traversed the battlements, 
or resounded on the narrow and winding passages 
and stairs which led to the various bartizans and 
points of defense. The voices of the knights were 
heard, animating their followers, or directing means 
of defense, while their commands were often drowned 
in the clashing of armor, or the clamorous shouts of 
those whom they addressed. Tremendous as these 
sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful 
event which they presaged, there was a sublimity 
mixed with them, which Rebecca’s high-toned mind 
could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye 
kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks; 
and there was a strong mixture of fear, and of a 
thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated, half 
whispering to herself, half speaking to her compan¬ 
ion, the sacred text,—“The quiver rattleth 1 —the 
glittering spear and the shield—the noise of the cap¬ 
tains and the shouting!” 

But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sub¬ 
lime passage, glowing with impatience at his inactiv¬ 
ity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the af¬ 
fray of which these sounds were the introduction. 
“If I could but drag myself,” he said, “to yonder 
window, that I might see how this brave game is like 
to go—If I had bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-ax 
to strike were it but a single blow for our deliver¬ 
ance!—It is in vain—it is in vain—I am alike nerve¬ 
less and weaponless!” 

“Fret not thyself, noble knight,” answered Rebec¬ 
ca, “the sounds have ceased of a sudden—it may¬ 
be they join not battle.” 

“Tho u knowest naught of it,” said Wilfred, im- 

\Tob XXXIX. 23-25, 



IVANHOE 


383 


•atiently; “this dead pause only shows that the men 
re at their posts on the walls, and expecting an 
hstant attack; what we have heard was but the dis- 
ant muttering of the storm—it will burst anon in all 
ts fury.—Could I but reach yonder window!” 

“Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble 
might,” replied his attendant. Observing his ex- 
reme solicitude, she firmly added, “I myself will 
tand at the lattice, and describe to you as I can what 
>asses without.” 

“You must not—you shall not!” exclaimed Ivan- 
loe; “each lattice, each aperture, will be soon a mark 
-or the archers; some random shaft-” 

“It shall be welcome!” murmured Rebecca, as with 
|irm pace she ascended two or three steps, which led 
:o the window of which they spoke. 

“Rebecca, dear Rebecca!” exclaimed Ivanhoe, 
“this is no maiden’s pastime—do not expose thyself 
to wounds and death, and render me forever miser¬ 
able for having given the occasion; at least, cover 
thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show as 
little of your person at the lattice as may be.” 

Following with wonderful promptitude the direc¬ 
tions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the protec¬ 
tion of the large ancient shield, which she placed 
against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with 
tolerable security to herself, could witness part of 
what was passing without the castle, and report to 
Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were 
making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which 
she thus obtained was peculiarly favorable for this 
purpose, because, being placed on an angle of the main 
building, Rebecca could not only see what passed be¬ 
yond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded 
a view of the outwork likely to be the first object of 
the meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification 





384 


IVANKOE 


of no great height or strength, intended to protect the 
postern-gate, through which Cedrick had been recent¬ 
ly dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat di¬ 
vided this species of barbican from the rest of the 
fortress, so that, in case of .its being taken, it was 
easy to cut off the communication with the main 
building, by withdrawing the temporary bridge. In 
the outwork was a sallyport corresponding to the 
postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded 
by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from 
the number of men placed for the defense of this 
post, that the besieged entertained apprehensions for 
its safety; and from the mustering of the assailants 
in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it 
seemed no less plain that it had been selected as a 
vulnerable point of attack. 

These appearances she hastily communicated to 
Ivanhoe, and added, “The skirts of the wood seem 
lined with archers, although only a few are advanced 
from its dark shadow.” 

“Under what banner?” asked Ivanhoe. 

“Under no ensign of war which I can observe,” 
answered Rebecca. 

“A singular novelty/’ muttered the knight, “to 
advance to storm such a castle without pennon or 
banner displayed!—Seest thou who they be that act 
as leaders?” 

“A knight, clad in sable armor, is the most con¬ 
spicuous,” said the Jewess; “he alone is armed from 
head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of 
all around him.” 

“What device does he bear on his shield?” re¬ 
plied Ivanhoe. 

“Something resembling a bar of iron, and a pad¬ 
lock painted blue on the black shield.” 

“A fetterlock and shackelbolt azure,” said Ivan- 


IVANHOE 


385 


ioe; “I know not who may bear the device, but well 
I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not 
ee the motto?” 

“Scarce the device itself at this distance,” replied 
iebecca; “but when the sun glances fair upon his 
hield, it shows as I tell you.” 

| “Seem there no other leaders?” exclaimed the 
mxious inquirer. 

“None of mark and distinction that I can behold 
from this station,” said Rebecca; “but, doubtless, 
he other side of the castle is also assailed. They 
tppear even now preparing to advance—God of 
Sion, protect us!—What a dreadful sight!—Those 
who advance first bear huge shields and defenses 
jnade of plank; the others follow, bending their bows 
is they come on.—They raise their bows!—God of 
Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made!” 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by 
he signal for assault, which was given by the blast 
)f a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flour¬ 
ish of Norman trumpets from the battlements, 
which, mingled with the deep and hollow clang of 
the nakers (a species of kettle-drum), retorted in 
notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The 
shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, 
the assailants crying, “Saint George for merry Eng¬ 
land!” and the Normans answering them with loud 
cries of “En avant 1 De Bracy! — Beau-seant! — Beau- 
seantl — Front-de-Boeuf aJ la rescousse according 
to the war-cries of their different commanders. 

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was 
to be decided, and the desperate efforts of the assail¬ 
ants were met by an equally vigorous defense on the 
part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their 


forward. 

*To the rescue. 






386 


Ivan hoe 


woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the 
long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the 
time, so “wholly together,” that no point at whicl 
a defender could show the least part of his person 
escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy dis 
charge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail 
while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its individ 
ual aim, and flew by scores together against each em 
brasure and opening in the parapets, as well as a 
every window where a defender either occasionally 
had post, or might be suspected to be stationed,—ty 
this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrisor 
were slain, and several others wounded. But, confi 
dent in their armor of proof, and in the cover which 
their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de 
Bceuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defens 1 
proportioned to the fury of the attack, and replie I 
with the discharge of their large crossbows, as we I 
as with their long-bows, slings, and other missil 1 
weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; 
and, as the assailants were necessarily but indiffei 
ently protected, did considerably more damage tha i 
they received at their hand. The whizzing of shaft ; 
and of missiles, on both sides, was only interrupte I 
by the shouts which arose when either side inflicte I 
or sustained some notable loss. 

“And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk, 
exclaimed Ivanhoe, “while the game that gives m 
freedom or death is played out by the hand of others I 
—Look from the window once again, kind maiden 
but beware that you are not marked by the archer? 
beneath—look out once more, and tell me if the 1 
yet advance to the storm.” 

With patient courage, strengthened by the intervjl 
which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebeccs 
again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, hov - 




IVANHOE 


387 


ver, so as not to be visible from beneath. 

; “What dost thou see, Rebecca?” again demanded 
le wounded knight. 

“Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick 
s to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who 
boot them.” 

“That cannot endure,” said Ivanhoe, “if they 
ress not right on to carry the castle by pure force 
f arms, the archery may avail but little against 
tone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight 
f the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears 
imself; for as the leader is, so will his followers 

e” 

“I see him not,” said Rebecca. 

“Foul craven!” exclaimed Ivanhoe; “does he 
lench from the helm when the wind blows highest?” 

| “He blenches not! he blenches not!” said Re- 
ecca, “I see him now; he leads a body of men close 
mder the outer barrier of the barbican. They pull 
own the piles and palisades; they hew down the 
>arriers with axes.—His high black plume floats 
broad over the throng, like a raven over the field 
•f the slain.—They have made a breach in the bar¬ 
kers—they rush in—they are thrust back!—Front- 
le-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic 
orm above the press. They throng again to the 
•reach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and 
nan to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of 
wo fierce tides—the conflict of two oceans moved by 
dverse winds.” 

' She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable 
onger to endure a sight so terrible. 

“Look forth again, Rebecca,” said Ivanhoe, mis- 
aking the cause of her retiring; “the archery must 
n some degree have ceased, since they are now fight- 






388 


IVANHOE 


ing hand to hand.—Look again, there is now less 
danger.” 

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immedi¬ 
ately exclaimed, “Holy prophets of the law! Front- 
de-Bceuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand or 
the breach, amid the road of their followers, whc 
watch the progress of the strife—Heaven strike with 
the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!’ 1 
She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, “He 
is down!—he is down!” 

“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “for our dear 
Lady’s sake, tell me which has fallen?” 

“The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, faintly; 
then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness— 

“But no—but no!-the name of the Lord of Hosts 

be blessed!—he is on foot again, and fights as if there 
were twenty men’s strength in his single arm.—His 
sword is broken—he snatches an ax from a yeoman 
—he presses Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow.— 
The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the 
steel of the woodman—he falls—he falls!” 

“Front-de-Boeuf ?” exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

“Front-de-Bceuf!” answered the Jewess; “his 
men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Tem¬ 
plar—their united force compels the champion to 
pause—they drag Front-de-Bceuf within the walls.” 

“The assailants have won the barriers, have they 
not?” said Ivanhoe. 

“They have—they have!” exclaimed Rebecca— 
“and they press the besieged hard upon the outer 
wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and 
endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other 
—down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon 
their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to 
the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. 
—Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, 







IVANHOE 


389 


;hat it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of 
:heir brethren!” 

“Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe; “this is no 
time for such thoughts.—Who yield?—who push 
their way?” 

“The ladders are thrown down,” replied Rebecca, 
shuddering; “the soldiers lie groveling under them 
like crushed reptiles.—The besieged have the bet¬ 
ter.” 

“Saint George strike for us!” exclaimed the 
knight; “do the false yeomen give way?” 

“No!” exclaimed Rebecca, “they bear them¬ 
selves right yeomanly—the Black Knight approaches 
the postern with his huge ax—the thundering blows 
which he deals, you may hear them above all the din 
and shouts of the battle.—Stones and beams are 
hailed down on the bold champion—he regards them 
no more than if they were thistledown or feathers!” 

“By Saint John of Acre,” said Ivanhoe, raising 
himself joyfully on his couch, “methought there 
was but one man in England that might do such a 
deed!” 

“The postern gate shakes,” continued Rebecca; 
“it crashes—it is splintered by his blows—they rush 
in—the outwork is won—Oh, God!—they hurl the 
defenders from the battlements—they throw them 
into the moat—0 men, if ye be indeed men, spare 
them that can resist no longer!” 

“The bridge—the bridge which communicates 


Question : Why is this chapter known as one of the 
most famous in English fiction? 

Question : Would it be more interesting if the seige 
were described from without? 

Question: Does Ivanhoe suspect who the Black Knight 
is? 





390 


Ivan hoe 


with the castle—have they won that pass?” exclaimed 
Ivanhoe. 

“No,” replied Rebecca, “the Templar has de¬ 
stroyed the plank on which they crossed—few of the 
defenders escaped with him into the castle—the 
shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the 
others—Alas!—I see it is still more difficult to look 
upon victory than upon battle.” 

“What do they now, maiden?” said Ivanhoe; 
“look forth yet again—this is no time to faint at 
bloodshed.” 

“It is over for the time,” answered Rebecca; “our 
friends strengthen themselves within the outwork 
which they have mastered, and it affords them so 
good a shelter from the foemen's shot, that the gar¬ 
rison only bestow a few bolts on it from interval to 
interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to 
injure them.” 

“Our friends,” said Wilfred, “will surely not 
abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun and so 
happily attained.—O no! I will put my faith in the 
good knight whose ax hath rent heart-of-oak and bars 
of iron.—Singular,” he again muttered to himself, 
“if there be two who can do a deed of such derring- 
do !—a fetterlock, and a shackelbolt on a field sable— 
what may that mean?—seest thou naught else, Re¬ 
becca, by which the Black Knight may be distin¬ 
guished?” 

“Nothing,” said the Jewess; “all about him is 
black as the wing of the night raven. Nothing can I 
spy that can mark him further—but having once 
seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks 
I could know him again among a thousand warriors. 
He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a 
banquet. There is more than mere strength, there 
seems as if the whole soul and spirit of the champion 



IVANHOE 


391 


■vere given to every blow which he deals upon his 
enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of bloodshed! 
—it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the 
irm and heart of one man can triumph over hun- 
ireds.” 

‘‘Rebecca,” said Ivanhoe, “thou hast painted a 
hero; surely they rest but to refresh their force, or 
to provide the means of crossing the moat. Under 
such a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, 
there are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays, no 
yielding up a gallant emprize; since the difficulties 
which render it arduous render it also glorious. I 
swear by the honor of my house—I vow by the name 
Df my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years’ 
captivity to fight one day by that good knight’s side 
in such a quarrel as this!” 

“Alas!” said Rebecca, leaving her station at the 
window, and approaching the couch of the wounded 
knight, “this impatient yearning after action—this 
struggling with and repining at your present weak¬ 
ness, will not fail to injure your returning health. 
How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, 
ere that be healed which thou thyself-hast received!” 

“Rebecca,” he replied, “thou knowest not how 
impossible it is for one trained to actions of chivalry 
to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when 
they are acting deeds of honor around him. The 
love of battle is the food upon which we live—the 
lust of the melee is the breath of our nostrils! We 
live not—we wish not to live—longer than while we 
are victorious and renowned. Such, maiden, are the 
laws of chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which 
we offer all that we hold dear.” 

“Alas!” said the fair Jewess, “and what is it, 

Question : Why does Scott not let the Black Ivniglit 
and Ivanhoe fight side by side in this contest? 




392 


IVANHOE 


valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a 
demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire 
to Moloch! 1 —What remains to you as the prize of all 
the blood you have spilled—of all the travail and 
pain you have endured—of all the tears which your 
deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong 
man’s spear, and overtaken the speed of his war- 
horse?” 

“What remains?” cried Ivanhoe. “Glory, maiden, 
glory! which gilds our sepulcher and embalms our 
name.” 

“Glory?” continued Rebecca; “alas, is the rusted 
mail which hangs as a hatchment over the cham¬ 
pion’s dim and moldering tomb—is the defaced 
sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk 
can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim—are these 
sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly 
affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make 
others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the 
rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic love, 
kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so wildly 
bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which 
vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their 
evening ale?” 

“By the soul of Hereward!” 2 replied the knight 
impatiently, “thou speakest, maiden, of thou know- 
est not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light 
of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from 
the base, the gentle knight from the churl and the 
savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch 
of our honor; raises us victorious over pain, toil, and 
suffering, and teaches us to fear no evil but disgrace. 
Thou art no Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are un- 

1 A fire-god worshipped by human sacrifices by the Am¬ 
monites. 

2 A traditional outlaw. 




Ivan hoe 


393 


known those high feelings which swell the bosom of 
a noble maiden when her lover hath done some deed 
of emprize which sanctions his flame. Chivalry!— 
why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affec¬ 
tion—the stay of the oppressed, the redresser of 
grievances, the curb of the power of the tyrant. 
Nobility were but an empty name without her, and 
liberty finds the best protection in her lance and her 
sword.” 

“I am, indeed,” said Rebecca, “sprung from a race 
whose courage was distinguished in the defense of 
their own land, but who warred not, even while yet a 
nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in 
defending their country from oppression. The sound 
of the trumpet wakes Judah no longer, and her de¬ 
spised children are now but the unresisting victims 
of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou 
spoken, Sir Knight,—until the God of Jacob shall 
raise up for his chosen people a second Gideon, 1 or a 
new Maccabeus, 2 it ill beseemeth the Jewish damsel 
to speak of battle or of war.” 

The high-minded maiden concluded the argument 
in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed her sense 
of the degradation of her people, embittered perhaps 
by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one, not 
entitled to interfere in a case of honor, and incapable 
of entertaining or expressing sentiments of honor and 
generosity. 

“How little he knows this bosom, she said, to 
imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul must 
needs be its guests, because I have censured the fan¬ 
tastic chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to heaven 


J uuge vn. 

2 Meaning Judas Mlaccabeus, a Jewish leader who with 
his family fought for the delivery of Judea from the 
Syrians. 




394 


IVANHOE 


that the shedding of mine own blood, drop by drop, 
could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay, would 
to God it could avail to set free my father, and this 
his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor! 
The proud Christian should then see whether the 
daughter of God’s chosen people dared not to die as 
bravely as the vainest Nazarene maiden, that boasts 
her descent from some petty chieftain of the rude 
and frozen north!” 

She then looked towards the couch of the wounded 
knight. 

“He sleeps,” she said; “nature exhausted by suf¬ 
ferance and the waste of spirits, his wearied frame 
embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation 
to sink into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I 
should look upon him, when it may be for the last 
time?—When yet but a short space, and those fair 
features will be no longer animated by the bold and 
buoyant spirit which forsakes them not even in sleep! 
—When the nostril shall be distended, the mouth 
agape, the eyes fixed and bloodshot; and when the 
proud and noble knight may be trodden on by the 
lowest caitiff of this accursed castle, yet stir not 
when the heel is lifted up against him! And my 
father!—oh, my father! even it is with his daughter, 
when his gray hairs are not remembered because of 
the golden locks of youth!—What know I but that 
these evils are the messengers of Jehovah’s wrath to 
the unnatural child, who thinks of a stranger’s cap¬ 
tivity before a parent’s? who forgets the desolation 
of Judah, and looks upon the comeliness of a Gentile 
and a stranger?—But I will tear this folly from my 
heart, though every fiber bleed as I rend it away!” 

She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat 
down at a distance from the couch of the wounded 
knight, with her back turned towards it, fortifying, 


IVANHOE 


395 


or endeavoring to fortify her mind, not only against 
the impending evils from without, but also against 
those treacherous feelings which assailed her from 
within. 





CHAPTER XXX 


Approach the chamber, look upon his bed. 

His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, 

Which, as the lark arises to the sky, 

’Mid morning’s sweetest breeze and softest dew, 

Is wing’d to heaven by good men’s sighs and tears! — 

Anselm parts otherwise. 

Old Play. 

During the interval of quiet which followed the 
first success of the besiegers, while the one party 
was preparing to pursue their advantage, and the 
other to strengthen their means of defense, the Tem¬ 
plar and De Bracy held brief counsel together in the 
hall of the castle. 

“Where is Front-de-Boeuf ?” said the latter, who 
had superintended the defense of the fortress on the 
other side; “men say he hath been slain.” 

“He lives,” \said the Templar, coolly, “lives as 
yet; but had he worn the bull’s head of which he 
bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence it 
withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal 
ax. Yet a few hours, and Front-de-Bceuf is with 
his fathers—a powerful limb lopped off Prince John’s 
enterprise.” 

“And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan,” 
said De Bracy; “this comes of reviling saints and 
angels, and ordering images of holy things and holy 
men to be flung down on the heads of these rascaille 
yeomen.” 

“Go to—thou art a fool,” said the Templar; “thy 
superstition is upon a level with Front-de-Boeuf’s 
want of faith; neither of you can render a reason for 
your belief or unbelief.” 

Question: Does Ivauhoe suspect that Rebecca loves 
him? 




IVANH0E 


397 


“Benedicite, 1 Sir Templar,” replied De Bracy, “I 
pray you to keep better rule with your tongue when 
I am the theme of it. By the Mother of Heaven, I 
am a better Christian man than thou and thy fellow¬ 
ship ; for the bruit 2 goeth shrewdly out, that the most 
holy Order of the Temple of Zion nurseth not a few 
heretics within its bosom, and that Sir Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert is of the number.” 

“Care not thou for such reports,” said the Tem¬ 
plar; “but let us think of making good the cas¬ 
tle.—How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?” 

“Like fiends incarnate,” said De Bracy. “They 
swarmed close up to the walls, headed, as I think, 
by the knave who won the prize at the archery, for 
I knew his horn and baldric. And this is old Fitzurse’s 
boasted policy, encouraging these malapert knaves to 
rebel against us! Had I not been armed in proof, the 
villain had marked me down seven times with as 
little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He 
tore every rivet on my armor with a cloth-yard shaft, 
that rapped against my ribs with as little compunc¬ 
tion as if my bones had been of iron. But that I 
wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my plate-coat, I 
had been fairly sped.” 

“But you maintained your post?” said the Templar. 
“We lost the outwork on our part.” 

“That is a shrewd loss,” said De Bracy; “the 
knaves will find cover there to assault the castle more 
closely, and may, if not well watched, gain some un¬ 
guarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten win¬ 
dow, and so break in upon us. Our members are 
too few for the defense of every point, and the men 
complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but 
they are the mark for as many arrows as a parish- 


J Bless you. 

2 Report. 



398 


Ivan hoe 


butt on a holyday even, Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, 
so we shall receive no more aid from his bull’s head 
and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, 
were we not better make a virtue of necessity, and 
compound with the rogues by delivering up our 
prisoners?” 

‘‘How?” exclaimed the Templar; “deliver up our 
prisoners, and stand an object alike of ridicule and 
execration, as the doughty warriors who dared by a 
night-attack to possess themselves of the persons of 
a party of defenseless travelers, yet could not make 
good a strong castle against a vagabond troop of out¬ 
laws, led by swineherds, jesters, and the very refuse 
of mankind?—Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de 
Bracy!—The ruins of this castle shall bury both my 
body and my shame, ere I consent to such base and 
dishonorable composition.” 

“Let us to the walls, then,” said De Bracy, care¬ 
lessly; “that man never breathed, be he Turk or 
Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I do. 
But I trust there is no dishonor in wishing I had here 
some two scores of my gallant troop of Free Com¬ 
panions?—Oh, my brave lances! if ye knew but how 
hard your captain were this day bested, how soon 
should I see my banner at the head of your clump 
of spears!. And how short while would these rab¬ 
ble villains stand to endure your encounter!” 

“Wish for whom thou wilt,” said the Templar, 
“but let us make what defense we can with the sol¬ 
diers who remain. They are chiefly Front-de-Bceuf’s 
followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts 
of insolence and oppression.” 

“The better,” said De Bracy; “the rugged slaves 
will defend themselves to the last drop of their blood, 
ere they encounter the revenge of the peasants with¬ 
out. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois- 



IVANHOE 


399 


Guilbert; and, liv§ or die, thou shalt see Maurice 
De Bracy bear himself this day as a gentleman of 
blood and lineage.” 

“To the walls!” answered the Templar; and they 
both ascended the battlements to do all that skill 
could dictate, and manhood accomplish, in defense 
of the place. They readily agreed that the point of 
greatest danger was that opposite to the outwork of 
which the assailants had possessed themselves. The 
castle, indeed, was divided from the barbican by the 
moat, and it was impossible that the besiegers could 
assail the postern-door, with which the outwork cor¬ 
responded, without surmounting that obstacle; but 
it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy, 
that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy 
their leader had already displayed, would endeavor, 
by a formidable assault, to draw the chief part of the 
defenders’ observation to this point, and take measures 
to avail themselves of every negligence which might 
take place in the defense elsewhere. To guard against 
such an evil, their numbers only permitted the knight 
to place sentinels from space to space along the wails 
in communication with each other, who might give 
the alarm whenever danger was threatened. Mean¬ 
while, they agreed that De Bracy should command 
the defense at the postern, and the Templar should 
keep with him a score of men or thereabouts as a body 
of reserve, ready to hasten to any other point which 
might be suddenly threatened. The loss of the bar¬ 
bican had also this unfortunate effect, that, notwith¬ 
standing the superior height of the castle walls, the 
besieged could not see from them, with the same 
precision as before, the operations of the enemy; for 
some straggling underwood approached so near the 
sallyport of the outwork, that the assailants might 
introduce into it whatever force they thought proper, 


400 


IVANHOE 


not only under cover, but even without the knowl¬ 
edge of the defenders. Utterly uncertain therefore, 
upon what point the storm was to burst, De Bracy 
and his companion were under the necessity of pro¬ 
viding against every possible contingency, and their 
followers, however brave, experienced the anxious de¬ 
jection of mind incident to men inclosed by enemies, 
who possessed the power of choosing their time and 
mode of attack. 

Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and en¬ 
dangered castle lay upon a bed of bodily pain and 
mental agony. He had not the usual resource of 
bigots in that superstitious period, most of whom 
were wont to atone for the crimes they were guilty 
of by liberality to the church, stupefying by this 
means their terrors by the idea of atonement and for¬ 
giveness; and although the refuge which success thus 
purchased, was no more like to the peace of mind 
which follows on sincere repentance, than the turbid 
stupefaction procured by opium resembles healthy 
and natural slumbers, it was still a state of mind 
preferable to the agonies of awakened remorse. But 
among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and grip¬ 
ing man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred 
setting church and churchmen at defiance, to pur¬ 
chasing from them pardon and absolution at the price 
of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an 
infidel of another stamp, justly characterize his asso¬ 
ciate, when he said Front-de-Bceuf could assign no 
cause for his unbelief and contempt for the estab¬ 
lished faith; for the Baron would have alleged that 
the Church sold her wares too dear, that the spiritual 
freedom which she put up to sale was only to be 
bought like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem, 
“with a great sum,” 1 and Front-de-Boeuf preferred 


1 Acts XXII, 28, 





IVANHOE 


401 


denying the virtue of the medicine, to paying the 
ixpense of the physician. 

But the moment had now arrived when earth and 
111 his treasures were gliding from before his eyes, 
md when the savage Baron's heart, though hard as 
a nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed for¬ 
ward into the waste darkness of futurity. The fever 
)f his body aided the impatience and agony of his 
nind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of the 
lewly awakened feelings of horror, combatting with 
:he fixed and inveterate obstinacy of his disposition; 
—a fearful state of mind, only to be equalled in 
those tremendous regions, where there are complaints 
without hope, remorse without repentance, a dread¬ 
ful sense of present agony, and a presentiment that 
it cannot cease or be diminished! 

“Where be these dog-priests now," growled the 
Baron, “who set such price on their ghostly mum¬ 
mery?—where be all those unshod Carmelites, for 
whom old Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St. 
Anne, robbing his heir of many a fair rood of 
meadow, and many a fat field and close—where be 
the greedy hounds now?—Swilling, I warrant me, 
at the ale, or playing their juggling tricks at the bed¬ 
side of some miserly churl.—Me, the heir of their 
founder—me, whom their foundation binds them to 
pray for—me—ungrateful villains as they are! 
they suffer to die like the houseless dog on yonder 
common, unshriven and unhoused!—Tell the Temp¬ 
lar to come hither—he is a priest, and may do 
something. But no!—as well confess myself to the 
devil as to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who recks neither 
of heaven nor of hell.—I have heard old men talk 
of prayer—prayer by their own voice—such need not 
to court or to bribe the false priest. But I I dare 
not!" 



402 


IVANHOE 


“Lives Reginald Front-de-Bceuf,” said a broker 
and shrill voice close by his bedside, “to say then 
is that which he dares not!” 

The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front- 
de-Bceuf heard, in this strange interruption to his 
soliloquy, the voice of one of those demons, who, as 
the superstition of the times believed, beset the beds 
of dying men, to distract their thoughts, and turr 
them from the meditations which concerned theii 
eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew himself to¬ 
gether; but, instantly summoning up his wonted reso¬ 
lution, he exclaimed, “Who is there?—what art thou : 
that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the 
night-raven?—Come before my couch that I may 
see thee.” 

“I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Bceuf,’ 
replied the voice. 

“Let me behold thee, then, in they bodily 3hape, ij 
thou be’st indeed a fiend,” replied the dying knight; 
“think not that I will blench from thee.—By the 
eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these hor¬ 
rors that hover round me, as I have done with mortal 
dangers, heaven or hell should never say that 1 
shrunk from the conflict!” 

“Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Bceuf,’ 
said the almost unearthly voice, “on rebellion, on 
rapine, on murder!—Who stirred up the licentious 
John to war against his gray-headed father—against 
his generous brother?” 

“Be thou fiend, priest, or devil,” replied Front-de- 
Bceuf, “thou liest in thy throat!—Not I stirred John 
to rebellion—not I alone—there were fifty knights 
and barons, the flower of the midland counties—bet¬ 
ter men never laid lance in rest.—And must I answer 
for the fault done by fifty?—False fiend, I defy thee! 
Depart, and haunt my couch no more—let me die in 



IVANHOE 


403 


beace if thou be mortal—if thou be a demon, thy time 
s not yet come.” 

“In peace thou shalt NOT die,” repeated the voice; 
‘even in death shalt thou think on thy murders—on 
:he groans which this castle has echoed—on the 
alood that is engrained in its floors!” 

“Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice.” 
answered Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and con¬ 
strained laugh. ‘‘The infidel Jew—it was merit with 
heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are 
men canonized who dip their hands in the blood of 
Saracens?—the Saxon porkers, whom I have slain, 
ithey were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, 
and of my liege lord.—Ho! ho! thou seest there is 
no crevice in my coat of plate.—Art thou fled?—art 
thou silenced?” 

“No, foul parricide!” replied the voice; “think of 
thy father!—think of his death!—think of his ban¬ 
quet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured 
forth by the hand of a son!” 

“Ha!” answered the Baron, after a long pause, “an 
thou knowest that, thou art indeed the author of evil, 
and as omniscient as the monks call thee!—That se¬ 
cret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that 
of one besides—the temptress, the partaker of my 
guilt.—Go, leave me, fiend! and seek the Saxon witch 
Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she and I alone 
witnessed—Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, 
and straightened the corpse, and gave to the slain 
man the outward show of one parted in time and in 
the course of nature—Go to her; she was my temp¬ 
tress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of 
the deed—let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures 
which anticipate hell!” 

“She already tastes them,” said Ulrica, stepping 
before the couch of Front-de-Boeuf; “she hath long 



404 


Ivan hoe 


drunken of this cup, and its bitterness is now sweet¬ 
ened to see that thou dost partake it.—Grind not thy 
teeth, Front-de-Bceuf—roll not thine eyes—clench not 
thy hand, nor shake it at me with that gesture of 
menace!—The hand which, like that of thy renowned 
ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken 
with one stroke the skull of a mountain-bull, is now 
unnerved and powerless as mine own!” 

“Vile murderous hag!” replied Front-de-Boeuf; 
“detestable screech-owl! it is then thou who art come 
to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted to lay low?” 

“Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” answered she, “it 
is Ulrica!—it is the daughter of the murdered Tor- 
quil Wolfganger!—it is the sister of his slaughtered 
sons!—it is she who demands of thee, and of thy 
father’s house, father and kindred, name and fame— 
all that she has lost by the name of Front-de-Boeuf! 
—Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer 
me if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil 
angel, and I will be thine—I will dog thee till the very 
instant of dissolution!” 

“Detestable fury!” exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, “that 
moment shalt thou never witness—Ho! Giles, Clem¬ 
ent, and Eustace! St. Maur, and Stephen; seize this 
damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements, 
headlong—she has betrayed us to the Saxon! Ho! 
St. Maur! Clement! false-hearted knaves, where tarry 
ye?” 

“Call on them again, valiant Baron,” said the hag, 
with a smile of grisly mockery; “summon thy vas¬ 
sals around thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge 
and the dungeon—but know, mighty chief,” she con¬ 
tinued, suddenly changing her tone, “thou shalt have 
neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at their hands. 
Listen to these horrid sounds,” for the din of the re¬ 
commenced assault and defense now rung fearfully 




IVANHOE 


405 


| 

oud from the battlements of the castle; “in that 
war-cry is the downfall of thy house—the blood- 
cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf’s power totters to 
;he foundation, and before the foes he most despised! 
—The Saxon, Reginald!— the scorned Saxon assails 
;hy walls!—Why liest thou here, like a worn-out hind, 
when the Saxon storms thy place of strength?” 

“Gods and fiends!” exclaimed the wounded knight;” 
0, for one moment’s strength, to drag myself to the 
melee and perish as becomes my name!” 

“Think not of it, valiant warrior!” replied she; 
“thou shalt die no soldier’s death, but perish like 
the fox in his den, when the peasants have set fire 
to the cover around it.” 

“Hateful hag! thou liest!” exclaimed Front-de- 
Boeuf; “my followers bear them bravely—my walls 
are strong and high—my comrades in arms fear not 
a whole host of Saxons, were they headed by Hen- 
gist and Horsa!—the war-cry of the Templar and of 
the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And 
by mine honor, when we kindle the blazing beacon, 
for joy of our defense, it shall consume thee, body 
and bones; and I shall live to hear thou art gone 
from earthly fires to those of that hell, which never 
sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly dia¬ 
bolical !” 

“Hold thy belief,” replied Ulrica, “till the proof 
reach thee.—But, no!” she said interrupting her¬ 
self, “thou shalt know, even now, the doom, which 
all thy power, strength, and courage is unable to 
avoid, though it is prepared for thee by this feeble 
hand. Markest thou the smoldering and suffocating 
7 apor which already eddies in sable folds through 
the chamber?—Didst thou think it was but the dark¬ 
ening of thy bursting eyes—the difficulty of thy 
cumbered breathing? No! Front-de-Boeuf, there is 




406 


Ivan hoe 


another cause.—Rememberest thou the magazine of 
fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?” 

“Woman!” he exclaimed with fury, “thou hast not 
set fire to it?—By heaven, thou hast, and the castle 
is in flames!” 

“They are fast rising, at least,” said Ulrica, with 
frightful composure; “and a signal shall soon wave 
to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who 
would extinguish them.—Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf! 
—Miay Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock, gods of the 
ancient Saxons—fiends, as the priests now call them 
—supply the place of comforters at your dying bed, 
which Ulrica now relinquishes!—But know, if it 
will give thee comfort to know it, that Ulrica is 
bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the 
companion of thy punishment as the companion of 
thy guilt.—And now, parricide, farewell forever!— 
May each stone of this vaulted roof find a tongue to 
echo that title into thine ear!” 

So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de- 
Boeuf could hear the crash of the ponderous key, as 
she locked and double-locked the door behind her, 
thus cutting off the most slender chance of escape. 
In the extremity of agony he shouted upon his ser¬ 
vants and allies—“Stephen and St. Maur!—Clement 
and Giles—I burn here unaided!—To the rescue— 
to the rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy! 
—It is Front-de-Boeuf who calls!—It is your master, 
ye traitor squires!—Your ally—your brother in arms, 
ye perjured and faithless knights!—all the curses 
due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you 
abandon me to perish thus miserably!—They near 

Question: What did Ulrica do to aid the Saxons? 

Question : Why could Front-de-Bceuf. not get out of his 
room? 






IVANHOE 


407 


;ie not—they cannot hear me—my voice is lost in the 
iin of battle.—The smoke rolls thicker and thicker— 
he fire has caught upon the floor below—0, for one 
raught of the air of heaven, were it to be purchased 
y instant annihilation!” And in the mad frenzy ot 
s.espair, the wretch now shouted with the shouts of 
he fighters, now muttered curses on himself, on man- 
:ind, and on Heaven itself—“The red fire flashes 
hrough the thick smoke!” he exclaimed; “the demon 
narches against me under the banner of his own 
slement.—Foul spirit, avoid!—I go not with thee 
vithout my comrades—all, all are thine, that gar- 
*ison these walls.—Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf 
vill be singled out to go alone?—No—the infidel 
Templar—De Bracy—Ulrica, the men who aided my 
Enterprises—the dog Saxons and accursed Jews, who 
ire my prisoners—all, all shall attend me—a goodly 
fellowship as ever took the downward road.—Ha 
aa, ha!” and he laughed in his frenzy till the vaulted 
roof rang" again. “Who laughed there?” exclaimed 
Front-de-Boeuf, in altered mood, for the noise of 
the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his own 
mad laughter from returning upon his ear—“who 
laughed there?—Ulrica, was it thou?—Speak, witch, 
and I forgive thee—for, only thou or the fiend of hell 
himself could have laughed at such a moment. 
Avaunt—avaunt!—” 

But it were impious to trace any farther the pic¬ 
ture of a blasphemer and parricide’s death-bed. 




CHAPTER XXXI 


Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. 

Or close the wall up with our English dead. 

-—And you, good yeomen, 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture—let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding. 

King Henry V. 

Cedric, although not greatly confident in Ulrica') 
message, omitted not to communicate her promise t< 
the Black Knight and Locksley. They were wel 
pleased to find they had a friend within the place 
who might, in the moment of need, be able to facil 
itate their entrance, and readily agreed with th< 
Saxon that a storm under whatever disadvantages 
ought to be attempted, as the only means of lib 
erating the prisoners now in the hands of the crue 
Front-de-Boeuf. 

“The royal blood of Alfred is endangered,” sai< 
Cedric. 

“The honor of a noble lady is in peril,” said th-* 
Black Knight. 

“And, by the St. Christopher at my baldric,” sai< 
the good yeoman, “were there no other cause tha 1 , 
the safety of that poor faithful knave, Wamba, 
would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his head wer 
hurt.” 

“And so would I,” said the Friar; “what, sirs! 
trust well that a fool—I mean, d'ye see me, sirs, 
fool that is free of his guild 1 and master of his crafi 
and can give as much relish and flavor to a cup o 
wine as ever a flitch of bacon can—I say, brethrei 
such a fool shall never want a wise clerk to pray fo 


*A fool enjoying the special privileges granted to a jeste; 






IVANHOE 


409 


or fight for him at a strait, while I can say a mass 
or flourish a partisan.” 

And with that he made his heavy halberd to play 
around his head as a shepherd boy flourishes his 
light crook. 

“True, Holy Clerk,” said the Black Knight, “true 
as if St. Dunstan himself had said it.—And now, 
good Locksley, were it not well that noble Cedric 
should assume the direction of this assault?” 

“Not a jot I,” returned Cedric; “I have never 
been wont to study either how to take or how to hold 
out those abodes of tyrannic power which the Nor¬ 
mans have erected in this groaning land. I will 
fight among the foremost; but my honest neighbors 
well know I am not -a trained soldier in the disci¬ 
pline of wars, or the attack of strongholds.” 

“Since it stands thus with noble Cedric,” said 
Locksley, “I am most willing to take on me the 
direction of the archery; and ye shall hang me up on 
my own trysting-tree, and the defenders be permitted 
to show themselves over the walls without being 
stuck with as many shafts as there are clovers in a 
gammon of bacon at Christmas.” 

“Well said, stout yeoman,” answered the Black 
Knight; “and if I be thought worthy to have a 
charge in these matters, and can find among these 
brave men as many as arg willing to follow a true 
English knight, for so I may surely call myself, I 
am ready, with such skill as my experience has 
taught me, to lead them to the attack of these walls.” 

The parts being thus distributed to the leaders, 
they commenced the first assault, of which the read¬ 
er has already heard the issue. 

When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight 
sent notice of the happy event to Locksley, request¬ 
ing him at the same time, to keep such a strict 


410 


Ivan hoe 


observation on the castle as might prevent the de¬ 
fenders from combining their force for a sudden 
sally, and recovering the outwork which they had 
lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of avoid¬ 
ing, conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty 
and untrained volunteers, imperfectly armed and 
unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon any sudden 
attack, fight at great disadvantage with the veteran 
soldiers of the Norman knights, who were well pro¬ 
vided with arms both defensive and offensive; and 
who, to match the zeal and high spirit of the be¬ 
siegers, had all the confidence which arises from 
perfect discipline and the habitual use of weapons. 

The knight employed the interval in causing to be 
constructed a sort of floating bridge, or long raft, by 
means of which he hoped to cross the moat in despite 
of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work 
of some time, which the leaders the less regretted, as 
it gave Ulrica leisure to execute her plan of diver¬ 
sion in their favor, whatever that might be. 

When the raft was completed, the Black Knight 
addressed the besiegers:—“It avails not waiting 
here longer, my friends; the sun is descending to the 
west—and I have that upon my hands which will 
not permit me to tarry with you another day. Be¬ 
sides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen come not 
upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish 
our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, 
and bid him commence a discharge of arrows on the 
opposite side of the castle, and move forward as if 
about to assault it; and you, true English hearts, 
stand by me, and be ready to thrust the raft endlong 
over the moat whenever the postern on our side is 
thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid me 
to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. 
As many of you as like not this service, or are but 
ill armed to meet it, do you man the top of the out- 



Ivan hoe 


411 


vork, draw your bowstrings to your ears, and mind 
^ou quell with your shot whatever shall appear to 
nan the rampart.—Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the 
lirection of those which remain ?” 

“Not so, by the soul of Hereward!” said the 
Saxon; “lead I cannot; but may posterity curse me 
in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wher¬ 
ever thou shalt point the way. The quarrel is mine, 
and well it becomes me to be in the van of the 
battle.” 

“Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon,” said the knight, 
“thou hast neither hauberk, nor corselet, nor aught 
but that light helmet, target, and sword.” 

“The better!” answered Cedric; “I shall be the 
lighter to climb these walls. And,—forgive the boast, 
Sir Knight,—thou shalt this day see the naked 
breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle 
as ever ye beheld the steel corselet of a Norman.” 

“In the name of God, then,” said the knight, 
“fling open the door, and launch the floating 
bridge.” 

The portal, which led from the inner-wall of the 
barbican to the moat, and which corresponded with 
a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now 
suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then 
thrust forward, and soon flashed in the waters, ex¬ 
tending its length between the castle and outwork, 
and forming a slippery and precarious passage for 
two men abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of 
the importance of taking the foe by surprise, the 
Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw 
himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite 
side. Here he began to thunder with his ax upon 
the gate of the castle, protected in part from the shot 
and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of 
the former drawbridge, which the Templar had de¬ 
molished in his retreat from the barbican, leaving 



412 


Ivan hoe 


the counterpoise 1 still attached to the upper part of 
the portal. The followers of the knight had no such 
shelter; two were instantly shot with crossbow bolts, 
and two more fell into the moat; the others retreated 
back into the barbican. 

The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight 
was now truly dangerous, and would have been still 
more so, but for the constancy of the archers in the 
barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows 
upon the battlements, distracting the attention ol‘ 
those by whom they were manned, and thus affording 
a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of mis¬ 
siles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. 
But their situation was eminently perilous, and was 
becoming more so with every moment. 

“Shame on ye all!” cried De Bracy to the soldiers 
around him; “do ye call yourselves crossbowmen, 
and let those two dogs keep their station under the 
walls of the castle?—Heave over the coping stones 
from the battlement, an better may not be.—Get 
pickax and levers, and down with that huge pin¬ 
nacle!” pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved 
work that projected from the parapet. 

At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the 
red flag upon the angle of the tower which Ulrica 
had described to Cedric. The stout yeoman Locksley 
was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting 
to the outwork, impatient to see the progress of the 
assault. 

“Saint George!” he cried, “Merry Saint George 
for England!—To the charge, bold yeomen!—why 
leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm 
the pass alone?—make in, mad priest, show thou 
canst fi ght for thy rosary,—make in, brave yeomen! 

1 The weights balancing the bridge so that it might be 
raised or lowered.. 



IVANHOE 


413 


—the castle is ours, we have friends within. See 
yonder flag; it is the appointed signal—Torquilstone 
is lours!—Think of honor, think of spoil! : —One 
effort, and the place is ours!” 

With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft 
right through the breast of one of the men-at-arms, 
who, under De Bracy’s direction, was loosening a 
fragment from one of the embattlements to pre¬ 
cipitate on the heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. 
A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying 
man the iron crow, with which he heaved at and 
had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an 
arrow through his head-piece, he dropped from the 
battlements into the moat a dead man. The men-at- 
arms were daunted, for no armor seemed proof 
against the shot of this tremendous archer. 

“Do you give ground, base knaves ! w said De 
Bracy; “Mount joye Saint Dennis ! 1 —Give me the 
lever!” 

And, snatching it up, he again assailed the 
loosened pinnacle, which was of weight enough, if 
thrown down, not only to have destroyed the 
remnant of the drawbridge, which sheltered the two 
foremost assailants, but also to have sunk the rude 
float of planks over which they had crossed. All saw 
the danger, and the boldest, even the stout Friar 
himself, avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did 
Locksley bend his shaft against De Bracy, and thrice 
did his arrow bound back from the knight’s armor 
of proof. 

“Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!” said Locksley, 
“had English smith forged it, these arrows had gone 
through, an as if it had been silk or sendal.” He 

’The battle cry of the French crusaders. Mount Joye 
was a height in Paris where, according to tradition, St. 
Dennis suffered martyrdom. 



414 


Ivan hoe 


then began to call out, “Comrades! friends! noble 
Cedric! bear back, and let the ruin fall.” 

His warning voice was unheard, for the din which 
the knight himself occasioned by his strokes upon 
the postern would have drowned twenty war-trum¬ 
pets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward 
on the planked bridge, to warn Cedric of his im¬ 
pending fate, or to share it with him. But his warn¬ 
ing would have come too late; the massive pinnacle 
already tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved 
at his task, would have accomplished it, had not the 
voice of the Templar sounded close in his ears:— 

“All is lost, De Bracy; the castle burns.” 

“Thou art mad to say so!” replied the knight. 

“It is all in a light flame on the western side. I 
have striven in vain to extinguish it.” 

With the stern coolness which formed the basis of 
his character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert communicated 
this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly 
received by his astonished comrade. 

“Saints of Paradise!” said De Bracy; “what is to 
be done? I vow to St. Nicholas of Limoges a candle¬ 
stick of pure gold-” 

“Spare thy vow.” said the Templar, “and mark 
me. Lead thy men down, as if to a sally; throw 
the postern gate open—there are but two men who 
occupy the float; fling them into the moat, and push 
across for the barbican. I will charge from the main 
gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if 
we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend 
ourselves until we are relieved, or at last till they 
grant us fair quarter.” 

“It is well thought upon,” said De Bracy; “I 
will play, my part—Templar, thou wilt not fail 
me?” 

“Hand and glove, I will not!” said Bois-Guilbert. 
“But haste thee, in the name of God!” 




IVANHOE 


415 


De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and 
rushed down to the postern-gate, which he caused 
instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this 
done ere the portentous strength of the Black 
Knight forced his way inward in despite of De 
Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost in¬ 
stantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding 
all their leader’s efforts to stop them. 

“Dogs!” said De Bracy, ‘will ye let two men 
win our only pass for safety?” 

“He is the devil!” said a veteran man-at-arms, 
bearing back from the blows of their sable antag¬ 
onist. 

“And if he be the devil,” replied De Bracy, 
“would you fly from him into the mouth of hell?— 
The castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair 
give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with 
this champion myself.” 

And well and chivalrously did De Bracy that day 
maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil wars 
of that dreadful period The vaulted passage to 
which the postern gave entrance, and in which these 
two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to 
hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt 
each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black 
Knight with his ponderous ax. At length the Nor¬ 
man received a blow, which though its force was 
partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never 
more would De Bracy have again moved limb, de¬ 
scended yet with such violence on his crest, that he 
measured his length on the paved floor. 

“Yield thee, De Bracy ” said the Black Champion, 
stooping over him, and holding against the bars of 
his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights 
dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the 
dagger of mercy), “yield thee, Miaurice de Bracy, 
rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man,’* 



416 


Ivan hoe 


“I will not yield/’ replied De Bracy faintly, “to 
an unknown conqueror. Tell me thy name, or work 
thy pleasure on me—it shall never be said that 
Maurice de Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl.” 

The Black Knight whispered something into the 
ear of the vanquished. 

“I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no 
rescue,” answered the Norman, exchanging his tone 
of stern and determined obstinacy for one of deep 
though sullen submission. 

“Go to the barbican,” said the victor, in a tone 
of authority, “and there wait my further orders.” 

“Yet first, let me say,” said De Bracy, “what it 
imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is 
wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in'the burn¬ 
ing castle without present help.” 

“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black 
Knight—“prisoner, and perish!—The life of every 
man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his 
head be singed. Show me his chamber!” 

“Ascend yonder winding stair,” said De Bracy; 
“it leads to his apartment.—Wilt thou not accept 
my guidance?” he added, in a submissive voice. 

“No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. 
I trust thee not, De Bracy.” 

During this combat and the brief conversation 
which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of men, 
among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had pushed 
across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern 
open, and drove back the dispirited and despairing 
followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter, 
some offered vain resistance, and the greater part 
fled towards the courtyard. De Bracy himself arose 
from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after 
his conqueror. “He trusts me not!” he repeated; 
“but have I deserved his trust?” He then lifted his 






Ivan hoe 


417 


sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of 
submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his 
sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way. 

As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon 
apparent in the chamber where Ivanhoe was watched 
and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been 
awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the 
battle; and his attendant, who had, at his anxious 
desire, again placed herself at the window to watch 
and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some 
time prevented from observing either, by the in¬ 
crease of the smoldering and stifling vapor. At 
length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the 
apartment—the cries for water, which were heard 
even above the din of the battle, made them sensi¬ 
ble of the progress of this new danger. 

“The castle burns,” said Rebecca; “it burns!— 
What can we do to save ourselves?” 

“Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life,” said 
Ivanhoe, “for no human aid can avail me.” 

“I will not fly.” answered Rebecca; “we will 
be saved or perish together.—And yet, great God!— 
my father, my father—what will be his fate!” 

At this moment the door of the apartment flew 
open, and the Templar presented himself,—a ghast¬ 
ly figure, for his gilded armor was broken and 
bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, part¬ 
ly burnt from his casque. “I have found thee, 
said he to Rebecca; “thou shalt prove I will keep my 
word to share weal and woe with thee. There is 
but one path to safety; I have cut my way through 
fifty dangers to point it to thee—up, and instantly 
follow me !” 1 

lu The author has some idea that this passage is imitated 
from the appearance of Philidaspes before the divine Man- 
dane, when the city of Babylon is on fire, and he proposes 




418 


Ivan hoe 


“Alone,” answered Rebecca, “I will not follow 
thee. If thou wert born of woman—if thou hast bul 
a touch of human charity in thee—if thy heart b( 
not hard as thy breastplate—save my aged father- 
save this wounded knight!” 

“A knight,” answered the Templar, with his char¬ 
acteristic calmness, “a knight, Rebecca, must en¬ 
counter his fate, whether it meet him in the shape 
of sword or flame—and who recks how or where 
a Jew meets with his?” 

“Savage warrior,” said Rebecca, “rather will 1 
perish in the flames than accept safety from thee I’ 1 

“Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca—once didst thou 
foil me. but never mortal did so twice.” 

So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who 
filled the air with her shrieks, and bore her out of 
the room in his arms in spite of her cries, and with¬ 
out regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivan- 
hoe thundered against him. “Hound of the Temple 
—stain to thine Order—set free the damsel! Traitor 
of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands thee!— 
Villain, I will have thy heart’s blood!” 

“I had not found thee, Wilfred,” said the Black 
Knight, who at that instant entered the apartment, 
“but for thy shouts.” 

“If thou be’st true knight,” said Wilfred, “think 
not of me—pursue yon ravisher—save the Lady 
Rowena—look to the noble Cedric!” 

“In their turn,” answered he of the fetterlock, 
“but thine is first.” 

And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with 
as muc h ease as the Templar had carried off Rebec- 

to carry her from the flames. But the theft, if there be 
one, would he rather too severely punished by the penance 
of searching for the original passage through the inter¬ 
minable volumes of the Grand Cyrus.” (Scott’s note). 



IVANHOE 


419 


ca, rushed with him to the postern, and having there 
delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he 
again entered the castle to assist in the rescue of 
the other prisoners. 

One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed 
out furiously from window and shot-hole. But in 
other parts, the great thickness of the walls and the 
vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the prog¬ 
ress of the flames, and there the rage of man still 
triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held 
mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the de¬ 
fenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and 
satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long 
animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant 
Front-de-Bceuf. Most of the garrison resisted to the 
uttermost—few of them asked quarter—none re¬ 
ceived it. The air was filled with groans and clash¬ 
ing of arms—the floors were slippery with the blood 
of despairing and expiring wretches. 

Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed 
in quest of Rowena, while the faithful Gurth, follow¬ 
ing him closely through the melee neglected his own 
safety while he strove to avert the blows that were 
aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so for¬ 
tunate as to reach his ward’s apartment just as she 
had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with the 
crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in ex¬ 
pectation of instant death. He committed her to 
the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in safety to the 
barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the 
enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This 
accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of 
his friend Athelstane, determined, at every risk to 
himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. 
But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in 
which he had himself been aprisoner, the inventive 



IVANHOE 


420 

genius of Wamba had procured liberation for him¬ 
self and his companion in adversity. 

When the noise of the conflict announced that it 
was at the hottest, the Jester began to shout, with 
the utmost power of his lungs, “Saint George and the 
dragon!—Bonny Saint George for merry England! 

The castle is won!” And these sounds he ren¬ 
dered yet more fearful, by banging against each oth¬ 
er two or three pieces of rusty armor which lay 
scattered around the hall. 

A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, 
or anteroom, and whose spirits were already in a 
state of alarm, took fright at Wamba’s clamor, and, 
leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the 
Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. 
Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making 
their escape into the anteroom, and from thence into 
the court of the castle, which was now the last scene 
of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on 
horseback, surrounded by several of the garrison 
both on horse and foot, who had united their 
strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to 
secure the last chance of safety and retreat which 
remained to them. The drawbridge had been low¬ 
ered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for 
the archers, who had hitherto only annoyed the cas¬ 
tle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the 
flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than 
they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent 
the escape of the garrison, as to secure their own 
share of booty ere the castle should be burnt down. 
On the other hand, a party of the besiegers who had 
entered by the postern were now issuing out into the 
courtyard, and attacking with fury the remnant of 
the defenders, who were thus assaulted on both sides 
at once. 

Animated, however, by despair, and supported by 




IVANHOE 


421 

the example of their indomitable leader, the remain¬ 
ing soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost 
valor; and, being well armed, succeeded more than 
ionce in driving back the assailants, though much 
inferior in numbers. Rebecca, placed on horseback 
before one of the Templar's Saracen slaves, was in 
the midst of the little party; and Bois-Guilbert, not¬ 
withstanding the confusion of the bloody fray, 
showed every attention to her safety. Repeatedly he 
was by her side, and, neglecting his own defense, held 
before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated 
shield; and anon starting from his position by her, 
he cried his war-cry, dashed forward, struck to 
; earth the most forward of the assailants, and was 
s on the same instant once more at her bridle rein. 

Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was sloth¬ 
ful, but not cowardly, beheld the female form whom 
the Templar protected thus sedulously, and doubted 
not that it was Rowena whom the knight was carry¬ 
ing off, in despite of all resistance which could be 
offered. 

“By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, “I will 
rescue her from yonder over-proud knight, and he 
shall die by my hand!" 

“Think what you do!" cried Wamba; “hasty hand 
! catches frog for fish—by my bauble, 1 yonder is none 
1 of my Lady Rowena—see but her long dark locks!— 
Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may 
j be leader, but I will be no follower—no bones of 
mine shall be broken unless I know for whom.— 
And you without armor too!—Bethink you, silk bon¬ 
net never kept out steel blade.—Nay, then, if will¬ 
ful will to water, willful must drench .—Deus vobis- 
cum, most doughty Athelstane!"—he concluded, 

, 

wand symbolic of bis position was carried by the 

Jester. 





422 


IVANHOE 


loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon 
the Saxon’s tunic. 

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which 
it lay beside one whose dying grasp had just relin¬ 
quished it—to rush on the Templar’s band, and to 
strike in quick succession to the right and left, lev¬ 
eling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane’s 
great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but 
the work of but a single moment; he was soon with¬ 
in two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his 
loudest tone. 

“Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom 
thou art unworthy to touch—turn, limb of a band 
of murdering and hypocritical robbers!” 

“Dog!” said the Templar, grinding his teeth, “I 
will teach thee to blaspheme the holy Order of the 
Temple of Zion;” and with these words, half¬ 
wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette to¬ 
wards the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as 
to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, 
he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athel- 
stane. 

“Well,” said Wamba, “that silken bonnet keeps 
out no steel blade.” So trenchant was the Templar’s 
weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a wil¬ 
low twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, 
which the ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, 
and, descending on his head, leveled him with the 
earth. 

“Ha! Beau-seant!” exclaimed B'ois-Guilbert, “thus 
be it to the maligners of the Temple-knights!” Tak¬ 
ing advantage of the dismay which was spread by 
the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, “Those who 
would save themselves, follow me!” he pushed across 
the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who would 
have intercepted them. He was followed by his Sar¬ 
acens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had 


IVANHOE 


423 


nounted their horses. The Templar’s retreat was 
rendered perilous by the number of arrows shot off 
at him and his party; but this did not prevent him 
from galloping round to the barbican, of which, ac¬ 
cording to his previous plan, he supposed it pos¬ 
sible De Bracy might have been in possession. 

“De Bracy! De Bracy!” he shouted, “art thou 
there ?” 

“I am here,” replied De Bracy. “but I am a pns- 

oner.” 

“Can I rescue thee?” cried Bois-Guilbert. 

“No,” replied De Bracy; “I have rendered me, res¬ 
cue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save 
thyself—there are hawks abroad—put the seas be¬ 
twixt you and England—I dare not say more. 

“Well,” answered the Templar, “an thou wilt 
tarry there, remember I have redeemed word and 
glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the 
walls of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover 
sufficient, and thither will I, like heron to her 
haunt.” 

Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his fol¬ 


lowers. 

Those of the castle, who had not gotten to horse, 
still continued to fight desperately with the besieg¬ 
ers after the departure of the Templar, bpt rather 
in despair of quarter than that they entertained any 
hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly 
through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica,, who had 
first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of 
one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, 
such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by 
the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dis¬ 
heveled gray hair flew back from her uncovered 
head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance 
contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity ; and 
she brandished the distaff which she held in her 




424 


I VAN HOE 


hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters 
who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tra¬ 
dition has preserved some wild strophes of the bar¬ 
barous hymn 1 which she chanted wildly amid that 
scene of fire and slaughter:— 

l 


Whet the bright steel. 

Sons of the White Dragon! 

Kindle the torch, 

Daughter of Hengist! 

The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet. 

It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed; 

The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, 

It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 

Whet the steel, the raven croaks! 

Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling! 

Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon! 

Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist! 

2 

The black cloud is low over the thane's castle; 

The eagle screams—he rides on its bosom. 

Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud, 

Thy banquet is prepared! 

The maidens of Valhalla look fortlp 

u ‘It will readily occur to the antiquary that these ver¬ 
ses are intended to imitate the antique poetry of Scalds— 
the minstrels of the Scandinavians—the race as the 
Laureate so happily terms them. 

‘Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure, 

Who smiled in death.’ 

The poety of Anglo-Saxon after their civilization and con¬ 
version, was of different and softer character; but in the 
circumstances of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally sup¬ 
posed to return to the wild strains which animated her 
forefathers during the time of Paganism and untamed fero¬ 
city." (Scott’i note). 



IVANHOE 


425 


fhe race of Hengist will send them guests, 
khake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla! 

And strike your loud timbrels for joy! 

Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 

Vlany a helmed head. 

3 

Dark sits the evening upon the thane’s castle, 

The black clouds gather round; 

Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant! 

The destroyer of the forests shall shake his red crest 
against them. 

He, the bright consumer of palaces, 

Broad waves he his blazing banner, 

Red, w T hite and dusky, 

Over the strife of the valiant: 

His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers; 
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from 
the wound! 

4 

* 

All must perish! 

The sword cleaveth the helmet; 

The strong armor is pierced by the lance; 

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, 
Engines break down the fences of the battle. 

All must perish! 

The race of Hengist is gone— 

The name of Horsa is no more: 

Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword. 

Let your blades drink blood like wine; 

Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 

By the light of the blazing halls! 

Strong be your swords while your blood is warm, 
And spare neither for pity nor fear. 

For vengeance hath but an hour; 

Strong hate itself shall expire! 

I also must perish! 


The towering flames had now surmounted every 





426 


IVANHOE 


obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge 
and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the 
adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, 
with blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants 
were driven from the courtyard. The vanquished, 
of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped 
into the neighboring wood. The victors, assembling 
in large bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed 
with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks 
and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of 
the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the 
lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad 
with wild exultation, as if she reigned empress of the 
conflagration which she had raised. At length, with 
a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she 
perished in the flames which had consumed her ty¬ 
rant. An awful pause of horror silenced each mur¬ 
mur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of 
several^ minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign 
the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard, 
“Shout, yeomen!—the den of tyrants is no morel 
Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of 
rendezvous at the Trysting-tree in the Harthill Walk; 
for there at break of day will we make just partition 
among our own bands, together with our worthy 
allies in this great deed of vengeance/’ 


CHAPTER XXXII 


Trust me each state must have its policies: 
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters: 
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, 

Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline; 

For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, 

Hath man with man in social union dwelt, 

But laws were made to draw that union closer. 

Old Play. 


The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the 
oak forest. The green boughs glittered with all their 
pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the co¬ 
vert of high fern to the more open walks of the 
green-wood, and no huntsman was there to watch or 
intercept the stately hart, as he paced at the head 
of the antlered herd. 

The outlaws were all assembled around the Tryst- 
ing-tree in the Harthill Walk, where they had spent 
the night in refreshing themselves after the fatigues 
of the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, 
many with hearing and recounting the events of f h 
day, and computing the heaps of plunder which their 
success had placed at the disposal of their Chief. 

The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwith¬ 
standing that much was consumed, a great deal of 
plate, rich armor, and splendid clothing, had been 
secured by the exertions of the dauntleis outlaws, 
who could be appalled by no danger when such re¬ 
wards were in view. Yet so strict were the laws of 
their society, that no one ventured to appropriate 
any part of the booty, which was brought into one 
common mass, to be at the disposal of their leader. 


Question : 
Question : 

a climax? 


How did Ulrica perish? 

Of what part of the story is this past chapter 






428 


IVANHOE 


The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not 
however the same to which Locksley had conducted 
Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story, 
but one which was the center of a silvan amphi¬ 
theater, within half a mile of the demolisned castle 
of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat—a 
throne of turf erected under the twisted branches or 
the huge oak, and the silvan followers were gathered 
around him. He assigned to the Black Knight a 
seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon 
his left. 

“Pardon my freedom, noble sirs,” he said, “but 
in these glades I am monarch—they are my king¬ 
dom, and these my wild subjects would reck but lit¬ 
tle of my power, were I, within my own dominions, 
to yield place to mortal man.—Now, sirs, who hath 
seen our chaplain? where is our curtal Friar? A 
mass amongst Christian men best begins a busy 
morning. No one had seen the Clerk of Copma 11 • 
hurst. “Over God’s forbode!” said the outlaw chief, 

“I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the 
winepot a thought too late. Who saw him since the 
castle was ta’en?” 

I, quoth the Miller, “marked him busy about 
the door of a cellar, swearing by each saint in the 
calendar he would taste the smack or Front-de 
Bceuf’s Gascoigne wine.” 

“Now, the saints, as many as there be of them,” 
said the Captain, “forefend, lest he has drunk too 
deep of the wine-butts, and perished by the fall of 
the castle!—Away, Miller!—take with you enow of 
men, seek the place where you last saw him—throw 
water from the moat on the scorching ruins—I will 
have them removed stone by stone ere I lose mv cur¬ 
tal Friar.” 

The numbers who hastened to execute this duty. 



IVANHOE 


429 


considering that an interesting division of spoil was 
about to take place, showed how much the troop had 
at heart the safety of their spiritual father. 

“Meanwhile, let us proceed,” said Locksley; “for 
when this bold deed shall be sounded abroad, the 
bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other allies of 
Front-de-Bceuf, will be in motion against us and it 
were well for our safety that we retreat from the 
vicinity—Noble Cedric,” he said, turning to the 
Saxon, “that spoil is divided into two portions; do 
thou make choice of that which best suits thee, to 
recompense thy people who were partakers with us 
in this adventure.” 

“Good yeoman,” said Cedric, “my heart is op¬ 
pressed with sadness. The noble Athelstane of Con- 
ingsburgh is no more—the last sprout of the sainted 
I Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which 
can never return!—A sparkle hath been quenched 
by his blood, which no human breath can again re- 
| kindle! My people, save the few who are now with 
me, do but tarry my presence to transport his hon¬ 
ored remains to their last mansion. The Lady Kow- 
ena is desirous to return to Rotherhood, and must 
be escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, 
ere now, have left this place; and I waited—not to 
share the booty, for, so help me God and Saint 
Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the 
value of a liard,—I waited but to render my thanks 
to thee and to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honor 
ye have saved.” 

“Nay, but,” said the chief Outlaw, “we did but 
half the work at most—take of the spoil what may 
reward your own neighbors and followers.” 

“I am rich enough to reward them from mine own 
wealth,” answered Cedric. 

“And some,” said Wamba, “have been wise enough 
to reward themselves; they do not march off empty- 



430 


Ivan hoe 


handed altogether. We do not all wear motley.” 

“They are welcome/’ said Locksley; “our laws 
bind none but ourselves.” 

“But, thou, my poor knave,” said Cedric, turning 
about and embracing his Jester, “how shall I reward 
thee, who feared not to give thy body to chains and 
death instead of mine!—All forsook me, when the 
poor fool was faithful!” 

A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he 
spoke—a mark of feeling which even the death of 
Athelstane had not extracted; but there was some¬ 
thing in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, 
that waked his nature more keenly than even grief 
itself. 

“Nay,” said the Jester, extricating himself from 
his master’s caress, “if you pay my service with the 
water of your eye, the Jester must weep for com¬ 
pany, and then what becomes of his vocation?— 
But, uncle, if you would indeed pleasure me, I 
pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole 
a week from your service to bestow it on your son.” 

“Pardon him!” exclaimed Cedric; “I will both 
pardon and reward him.—Kneel down, Gurth.”— 
The swineherd was in an instant at his master’s 
feet— “Theow and Esne 1 art thou no longer,” said 
Cedric, touching him with a wand; “Folkfree 2 and 
Sacless art thou in town and from town, in the 
forest as in the field. A hide of land I give to thee 
in my steads of Walbrugham, from me and mine to 
thee and thine aye and for ever; and God’s malison 
on his head who this gainsays!” 

No longer a serf, but a freeman and a landholder, 
Gurth sprung upon his feet, and twice bounded aloft 
to alm ost his own height from the ground. 


3 “Thrall and bondsmen.” Scott, 
2<< A lawful freeman.” Scott. 



IVANHOE 


431 


“A smith and a file,” he cried, “to do away the 
collar from the neck of a freeman!—noble master! 
doubled is my strength by your gift, and doubly will 
I fight for you!—There is a free spirit in my breast 
—I am a man changed to myself and all around.— 
Ha, Fangs!” he continued,—for that faithful cur, 
seeing his master thus transported, began to jump 
upon him, to express his sympathy,—“knowest thou 
thy master still?” 

“Ay,” said Wamba, “Fangs and I still know thee, 
Gurth, though we must needs abide by the collar; 
it is only thou art likely to forget both us and thy¬ 
self.” 

“I shall forget myself indeed ere I forget thee, 
true comrade,” said Gurth; “and were freedom fit 
for thee, Wamba, the master would not let thee 
want it.” 

“Nay,” said Wamba, “never think I envy thee, 
brother Gurth; the serf sits by the hall-fire when 
the freeman must forth to the field of battle. And 
what with Oldhelm 1 of Malmsbury.—Better a fool at 
a feast than a wise man at a fray.” 

The tramp of horses was now heard, and the Lady 
Rowena appeared, surrounded by several riders, and 
a much stronger party of footmen, who joyfully 
shook their pikes and clashed their brown-bills for 
joy of her freedom. She herself, richly attired, and 
mounted on a dark chestnut palfrey, had recovered 
all the dignity of her manner, and only an unwonted 
degree of paleness showed the sufferings she had un¬ 
dergone. Her lovely brow, though sorrowful, bore 
on it a cast of reviving hope for the future, as well 
as of grateful thankfulness for the past deliverance. 
She knew that Ivanhoe was safe, and she knew that 
Athlestane was dead. The former assurance filled 


*A monk and a scholar of the seventh century. 




432 


IVANHOE 


her with the most sincere delight; and if she did not 
absolutely rejoice at the latter, she might be par¬ 
doned for feeling the full advantage of being freed 
from further persecution on the only subject in 
which she had ever been contradicted by her guard¬ 
ian Cedric. 

As Rowena bent her steed towards Locksley’s seat, 
that bold yeoman, with all his followers, rose to re¬ 
ceive her, as if by a general instinct of courtesy. 
The blood rose to her cheeks, as, courteously waving 
her hand, and bending so low that her beautiful and 
loose tresses were for an instant mixed with the 
flowing mane of her palfrey, she expressed in few 
but apt words her obligations and her gratitude to 
Locksley and her other deliverers.—“God bless you, 
brave men,” she concluded, “God and Our Lady bless 
you and requite you for gallantry periling your¬ 
selves in the cause of the oppressed!—If any of you 
should hunger, remember Rowena has food—if you 
should thirst, she has many a butt of wine and 
brown ale—and if the Normans drive ye from these 
walks, Rowena has forests of her own, where her 
gallant deliverers may range at full freedom, and 
never ranger ask whose arrow hath struck down 
the deer.” 

“Thanks, gentle lady,” said Locksley; “thanks 
from my company and myself. But, to have saved 
you requites itself. We who walk the greenwood do 
many a wild deed, and the Lady Rowena’s deliver¬ 
ance may be received as an atonement.” 

Again bowing from her palfrey, Rowena turned to 
depart; but pausing a moment, while Cedric, who 
was to attend her, was also taking his leave, she 
found herself unexpectedly close by the prisoner 
De Bracy. He stood under a tree in deep medita¬ 
tion, his arms crossed upon his breast, and Rowena 
was in hopes she might pass him unobserved. He 


IVANHOE 


433 


j looked up, however, and, when aware of her pres¬ 
ence, a deep hush of shame suffused his handsome 
countenance. He stood a moment most irresolute; 
then, stepping forward, took her palfrey by the rein, 
and bent his knee before her. 

“Will the Lady Rowena deign to cast an eye on 
a captive knight—on a dishonored soldier?” 

“Sir Knight,” answered Rowena, “in enterprises 
I such as yours, the real dishonor lies not in failure, 
but in success.” 

“Conquest, lady, should soften the heart,” an¬ 
swered De Bracy; “let me but know that the Lady 
Rowena forgives the violence occasioned by an ill- 
fated passion, and she will .soon learn that De Bracy 
knows how to serve her in nobler ways.” 

“I forgive you, Sir Knight,” said Rowena, “as 
; a Christian.” * 

“That means,” said Wamba, “that she does not 
; forgive him at all.” 

“But I can never forgive the misery and desola¬ 
tion your madness has occasioned,” continued 
Rowena. 

“Unloose your hold on the lady’s rein,” said 
Cedric coming up. “By the bright sun above us, 
but it were shame I would pin thee to the earth with 
my javelin—but be you assured thou shalt smart, 
Maurice De Bracy, for thy share in this foul deed.” 

“He threatens safely who threatens a prisoner,” 
said De Bracy; “but when had a Saxon any touch 
of courtesy?” 

Then retiring two steps backward, he permitted 
the lady to move on. 

Cedric ere they departed, expressed his peculiar 
gratitude to the Black Champion, and earnestly en¬ 
treated him to accompany him to Rotherwood. 

“I know,” *he said, “that ye arrant knights de¬ 
sire to carry your fortunes on the point of your 







434 


Ivan hoe 


lance, and reck not of land or goods; but war is a 
changeful mistress, and a home is sometimes desir¬ 
able even to the champion whose trade is wandering. 
Thou hast earned one in the halls of Rotherwood, 
noble knight. Cedric has wealth enough to repair 
the injuries of fortune, and all he has is his deliv¬ 
erer’s. Come, therefore, to Rotherwood, not as a 
guest, but as a son or brother.” 

“Cedric has already made me rich,” said the 
Knight,—“he has taught me the value of Saxon 
virtue. To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon, 
and that speedily; but, as now, pressing matters of 
moment detain me from your halls. Peradventure 
when I come hither, I will ask such a boon as will 
put even thy generosity to the test.” 

“It is granted ere spoken out,” said Cedric, strik¬ 
ing his ready hand^into the gauntleted palm of the 
Black Knight,—“It is granted already, were it to 
affect half my fortune.” 

^ “Gage not thy promise so lightly,” and the 
Knight of the Fetterlock; “yet well I hope to gain 
the boon I shall ask. Meanwhile, adieu.” 

“I have but to say,” added the Saxon, “that, dur¬ 
ing the funeral rites of the noble Athelstane, I shall 
be an inhabitant of the halls of his castle of Conings- 
burgh. They will be open to all who choose to par¬ 
take of the funeral banqueting; and, I speak in name 
of the noble Edith, mother of the fallen prince, they 
will ever be shut against him who labored so bravely, 
though unsuccessfully, to save Athelstane from Nor¬ 
man chains and Norman steel.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Wamba, who had resumed his at¬ 
tendance on his master, “rare feeding there will be 
—pity that the noble Athelstane cannot banquet at 
his own funeral.—But he,” continued the Jester, lift- 
ig up his eyes gravely, “is supping in Paradise, 
and doubtless does honor to the cheer.” 


IVANHOE 


435 


“Peace, and move on,” said Cedric, his anger at 
this untimely jest being checked by the recollection 
of Wamba’s recent services. Rowena waved a grace¬ 
ful adieu to him of the Fetterlock—the Saxon bade 
God speed him, and on they moved through a wide 
glade of the forest. 

They had scarcely departed, ere a sudden proces¬ 
sion moved from under the greenwood branches, 
swept slowly round the silvan ampitheater, and took 
the same direction with Rowena and her followers. 
The priests of a neighboring convent, in expectation 
of the ample donation, or soul-scat / which Cedric 
had propined, attended upon the car in which the 
body of Athelstane was laid, and sang hymns as it 
was sadly and slowly borne on the shoulders of his 
vassals to his castle of Coningsburgh, to be there 
deposited in the grave of Hengist., from whom the 
deceased derived his long descent. Many of his 
vassals had assembled at the news of his death, and 
followed the bier with all the external marks, at 
least, of dejection and sorrow. Again the outlaws 
arose, and paid the same rude and spontaneous 
homage to death, which they had so lately rendered 
to beauty—the slow chant and mournful step of the 
priests brought back to tfheir remembrances such of 
their comrades as had fallen m the yesterday s 
affray. But such recollections dwell not long with 
those who lead a life of danger and enterprise, and 
ere the sound of the death-hymn had died on the 
wind, the outlaws were again busied m the distribu¬ 
tion of their spoil. 

“Valiant knight,” said Locksley to the Black 
Champion, “without whose good heart and mighty 
arm our enterprise must altogether have failed, will 
it please you to take from that mass of spoil what- 

tax paid to the church wherein the deceased was held. 




436 


IVANHOE 


ever may best serve to pleasure you, and to remind 
you of this my Trysting-tree?” 

“I accept the offer,” said the Knight, “as frankly 
as it is given; and I ask permission to dispose of Sir 
Maurice de Bracy at my own pleasure.” 

“He is thine already,” said Locksley, “and well 
for him! else the tyrant had graced the highest bough 
of this oak, with as many of his Free Companions 
as we could gather, hanging thick as acorns around 
him.—But he is thy prisoner, and he is safe, though 
he had slain my father.” 

“De Bracy,” said the Knight, “thou art free— 
depart. He whose prisoner thou art scorns to take 
mean revenge for what is past. But beware of the 
future, lest a worse thing befall thee.—Maurice de 
Bracy, I say beware!” 

De Bracy bent low and in silence, and was about 
to withdraw, when the yeomen burst at once into a 
shout of execration and derision. The proud knight 
instantly stopped, turned back, folded his arms, drew 
up his form to its full height, and exclaimed, “Peace, 
ye yelping curs! who open upon a cry which ye 
followed not when the stag was at bay—De Bracy 
scorns your censure as he would disdain your ap¬ 
plause. To your brakes and caves, ye outlawed 
thieves! and be silent when aught knightly or 
noble is but spoken within a league of your fox- 
earths.” 

This ill-timed defiance might have procured for 
De Bracy a volley of arrows, but for the hasty and 
imperative interference of the outlaw Chief. Mean¬ 
while the knight caught a horse by the rein for sev¬ 
eral which had been taken in the stables of Front-de- 
Boeuf stood accoutered around, and were a valuable 
part of the booty. He threw himself upon the 


Question: Why was De Bracy set free? 



IVANHOE 


437 


saddle, and galloped off through the wood. 

When the bustle occasioned by this incident was 
somewhat composed, the chief Outlaw took from his 
neck the rich horn and baldric which he had re¬ 
cently gained at the strife of archery near Ashby. 

“Noble knight,” he said to him of the Fetterlock,' 
“if you disdain not to grace by your acceptance a 
bugle which an English yeoman has once worn, this 
I will pray you to keep as a memorial of your gallant 
bearing—and if ye have aught to do, and, as happen- 
eth oft to a gallant knight, ye change to be hard 
bested in any forest between Trent and Tees 1 , wind 
three mots 2 upon the horn thus, Wa-sa-hoa! and it 
may well chance ye shall find helpers and rescue.” 

-die then gave breath to the bugle, and winded once 
and again the call which he described, until the 
knight had caught the notes. 

“Gramercy for the gift, bold yeoman,” said the 
Knight; “and better help than thine and thy 
rangers’ would I never seek, were it at my utmost 
need.” And then in his turn he winded the call 
till all the greenwood rang. 

“Well blown and clearly,” said the yeoman; “be- 
shrew me an thou knowest not as much of wood¬ 
craft as of war!—thou hast been a striker of deer in 
thy day, I warrant.—Comrades, mark these three 
mots—it is the call of the Knight of the Fetterlock; 
and he who hears it, and hastens not to serve him 
at his need, I will have him scourged out of our 
band with his own bowstring.” 

“Long live our leader!” shouted the yeomen, 

*The Trent flows through Central England; the Tees in 
the northern boundary of Yorkshire. 

2 “The notes upon the bugle were anciently called mots, 
and are distinguished in the old treatises on hunting, not 
by musical characters, but by written words/’—'Scott. 




438 


Ivan hoe 


‘‘and long live the Black Knight of the Fetterlock! 
—May he soon use our service, to prove how readily 
it will be paid.” 

Locksley now proceeded to the distribution of the 
spoil, which he performed with the most laudable im¬ 
partiality. A tenth part of the whole was set apart 
for the church, and for pious uses; a portion was 
next allotted to a sort of public treasury; a part was 
assigned to the widows and children of those who 
had fallen, or to be expended in masses for the souls 
of such as had left no surviving family. The rest 
was divided amongst the outlaws, according to their 
rank and merit; and the judgment of the Chief, on 
all such doubtful questions as occurred, was deliv¬ 
ered with great shrewdness, and received with abso¬ 
lute submission. The Black Knight was not a little 
surprised to find that men in a state so lawless, were 
nevertheless among themselves so regularly and 
equitable governed, and all that he observed added 
to his opinion of the justice and judgment of their 
leader. 

When each had taken his own proportion of the 
booty, and while the treasurer, accompanied by four 
tall yeomen, was transporting that belonging to the 
state to some place of concealment or of security, 
the portion devoted to the church still remained un¬ 
appropriated. 

“I would,” said the leader, ‘‘we could hear 
tidings of our joyous chaplain—he was never wont 
to be absent when meat was to be blessed, or spoil 
to be parted; and it is his duty to take care of these 
the tithes of our successful enterprise. It may be 
the office has helped to cover some of his canonical 
irregu larities. Also, I have a holy brother of his a 

Question : What was Locksley’s gift to the Black 
Knight? 




IVANHOE 


439 


prisoner at no great distance, and I would fain have 
ithe Friar to help me to deal with him in due sort. 

I greatly misdoubt the safety of the bluff priest.’' 

“I were right sorry for that,” said the Knight of 
jthe Fetterlock, “for I stand indebted to him for the 
joyous hospitality of a merry Knight in his cell. Let 
us to the ruins of the castle; it may be we shall 
there learn some tidings of him.” 

While they thus spoke, a loud shout among the 
yeomen announced the arrival of him for whom they 
feared, as they learned from the stentorian voice of 
the Friar himself, long before they saw his burly 
I person. 

I “Make room, my merry-men!” he exclaimed; 
“room for your godly father and his prisoner—cry 
welcome once more.—I come, noble leader, like an 
eagle with my prey in my clutch.”—And making*his 
way through the ring, amidst the laughter of all 
! around, he appeared in majestic triumph, his huge 
partisan in one hand, and in the other a halter, one 
end of which was fastened to the neck of the unfor¬ 
tunate Isaac of York, who, bent down by sorrow and 
terror, was dragged on by the victorious priest, who 
shouted aloud, “Where is Allan-a-Dale, to chronicle 
me in a ballad, or if it were but a lay?—By Saint 
Hermangild, the jingling crowder is ever out of the 
way where there is an apt theme for exalting valor!” 

“Curtal Priest,” said the Captain, “thou hast 
been at a wet mass this morning, as early as it is. 
In the name of Saint Nicholas, whom hast thou got 
here?” 

“A captive to my sword and to my lance, noble 
Captain,” replied the Clerk of Copmanhurst; “to 
my bow and to my halberd, I should rather say; and 
yet I have redeemed him by my divinity from a 
worse captivity. Speak, Jew—have I not ransomed • 
thee from Sathanas?—have I not taught thee thy 






440 


Ivan hoe 


credo, thy pater, and thine Ave Maria? Did I not 
spend the whole night in drinking to thee, and in 
expounding of mysteries ?” 

“For the love of God!” ejaculated the poor Jew, 
“will no one take me out of the keeping of this mad 
—I mean this holy man?” 

“How's this, Jew?” said the Friar, with a men¬ 
acing aspect; “dost thou recant, Jew?—Bethink 
thee, if thou dost relapse into thine infidelity, though 
thou art not so tender as a suckling pig—I would I 
had one to break my fast upon—thou art not too 
tough to be roasted! Be comfortable, Isaac, and 
repeat the words after me. Ave Maria!-” 

“Nay, we will have no profanation, mad Priest,” 
said Locksley; “let us rather hear where you found 
this prisoner of thine.” 

“By Saint Dunstan,” said the Friar, “I found 
him where I sought for better ware! I did step into 
the cellarage to see what might be rescued there; for 
though a cup of burnt wine, with spice, be an even¬ 
ing’s draught for an emperor, it were waste, me- 
thought, to let so much good liquor be mulled at 
once; and I had caught up one runlet of sack, and 
was coming to call more aid among these lazy knaves, 
who are ever to seek when a good deed is to be 
done, when I was advised of a strong door. Aha! 
thought I, here is the choicest juice of all in this 
secret crypt; and the knave butler, being disturbed 
in his vocation, hath left the key in the door. In 
therefore I went, and found just naught besides a 
commodity of rusted chains and this dog of a Jew, 
who presently rendered himself my prisoner, rescue 
or no rescue. I did but refresh myself after the 
fatigue of the action with the unbeliever, with one 
humming cup of sack, and was proceeding to lead 
forth my captive, when, crash after crash, as with 
wild thunder-dint and levin-fire, down toppled the 



Ivan hoe 


441 


masonry of an outer tower, (marry beshrew their 
hands 1 that built it not the firmer I) and blocked up 
the passage. The roar of one falling tower followed 
another—I gave up thought of life; and deeming it 
a dishonor to one of my profession to pass out of this 
world in company with a Jew, I heaved up my hal¬ 
berd to beat his brains out; but I took pity on his 
gray hairs, and judged it better to lay down the 
partisan, and take up my spiritual weapon for his 
conversion. And truly, by the blessing of Saint 
Dustan, the seed has been sown in good soil; only 
that, with speaking to him of mysteries through the 
whole night, and being in a manner fasting', (for the 
few draughts of sack which I sharpened my wits 
with were not worth marking,) my head is well-nigh 
dizzied, I trow.—But I was clean exhausted.—Gil¬ 
bert and Wibbald know in what state they found 
me—quite and clean exhausted/’ 

“We can bear witness,” said Bilbert; “for when 
we had cleared away the ruin, and by Saint Dun- 
stan’s help lighted upon the dungeon stair, we found 
the runlet of sack half empty, the Jew half dead, 
and the Friar more than half—exhausted, as he 
calls it.” 

“Ye be knaves! ye lie!” retorted the offended 
Friar; “it was you and your gormandizing com¬ 
panions that drank up the sack, and called it your 
morning draught. I am a pagan, an I kept it not 
for the Captain’s own throat. But what recks it. 
The Jew is converted, and understands all I have 
told him, very nearly, if not altogether, as well as 

^“Jew,” said the Captain, “is this true? hast thou 
renounced thine unbelief?” 

J May Mary curse the hands of those who built it not 

firmer. 




442 


XVANHOE 


“May I so find mercy in your eyes/’ said the 
Jew, “as I know not one word which the reverend 
prelate spake to me all this fearful night. Alas! 

I was so distraught with agony, and fear, and grief, 
that had our holy father Abraham come to preach to 
me, he had found but a deaf listener/’ 

“Thou liest, Jew, and thou knowest thou dost,” 
said the Friar; “I will remind thee of but one word 
of our conference—thou didst promise to give all thy 
substance to our Holy Order.” 

“So help fne the* Promise, fair sirs,” said Isaac, 
even more alarmed than before, “as no such sounds 
ever crossed my lips! Alas! I am an aged beggar’d 
man—I fear me a childless—have ruth on me, and 
let me go!” 

“Nay,” said the Friar, “if thou dost retract vows 
made in favor of holy Church, thou must do pen¬ 
ance.” 

Accordingly, he raised his halberd, and would have . 
laid the staff of it lustily on the Jew’s shoulders, 
had not the Black Knight stopped the blow, and 
thereby transferred the Holy Clerk’s resentment to 
himself. 

“By Saint Thomas of Kent,” said he, “an I 
buckle to my gear, I will teach thee, sir lazy lover, 
to mell with thine own matters, mauger thine iron 
case there!” 

“Nay, be not wroth with me,” said the Knight; 
“thou knowest I am thy sworn friend and com¬ 
rade.” 

“I know no such thing,” answered the Friar; 
“and defy thee for a meddling coxcomb!” 

“Nay, but,” said the Knight, who seemed to take 
a pleasure in provoking his quondam host, “hast 
thou forgotten how, that for my sake (for I say 
nothing of the temptation of the flagon and the 
pasty) thou didst break thy vow of fast and vigil?’ 


IVANHOE 


443 


| “Truly, friend,” said the Friar, clenching his 
huge fist, “I will bestow a buffet on thee/’ 

“I accept of no such presents/’ said the Knight; 
“I am content to take thy cuff as a loan, but I will 
repay thee with usury as deep as ever thy prisoner 
there exacted in his traffic .” 1 

“I will prove that presently,” said the Friar. 

“Hola!” cried the Captain, “what art thou after, 
mad Friar? brawling beneath our Trysting-tree?” 

“No brawling,” said the Knight; “it is but a 
friendly interchange of courtesy.—Friar, strike an 
thou darest—I will stand thy blow., if thou wilt 
stand mine.” 

“Thou hast the advantage with that iron pot on 
thy head,” said the churchman; “but have at thee— 
down thou goest, an thou wert Goliath 2 of Gath in 
his brazen helmet.” 

The Friar bared his brawny arm up to the elbow, 
and putting his full strength to the blow, gave the 
Knight a buffet that might have felled an ox. But 

i“The interchange of a cuff witli the jolly priest is not 
entirely out of the character with Richard I, if Romances 
read him aright. In the very curious romance on the sub¬ 
ject of his adventures in the Holy Land, and his return 
from thence, it is recorded how he exchanged a pugilistic 
favor of this nature; while a prisoner in Germany. His 
opponent was the son of his principal warder, and was so 
impudent as to give the challenge to this barter of buffets. 
The king stood forth like a true man, and received a blow 
that staggered him. In requital, having previously waxed 
his hand, a practice unknown, I believe, to the gentlemen 
of modern fancy, he returned the box on the ear with such 
interest as to kill his antagonist on the spot. See in Ellis’ 
Specimens of English Romance that of Cour-de-Lion. 

(Scott’s note). 

2 I Samuel XVII. 4-54. 

Question : What is the value of the bits of humor in¬ 
troduced here? 





444 


Ivan hoe 


his adversary stood firm as a rock. A loud shout 
was uttered by all the yeomen around; for the Clerk’s 
cuff was proverbial amongst them, and there were 
few who, in jest or earnest, had not had occasion to 
know its vigor. 

“Now, Priest,” said the Knight, pulling off his 
gauntlet, “if I had vantage on my head I will have 
none on my hand—stand fast as a true man.” 

“Genam meam dedi vapulateri 1 —I have given my 
cheek to the smiter,” said the Priest; “an thou canst 
stir me from the spot, fellow. I will freely bestow on 
thee the Jew’s ransom.” 

So spoke the burly Priest, assuming on his part, 
high defiance. But who may resist his fate? The 
buffet of the Knight was given with much strength 
and good-will, that the Friar rolled head over heels 
upon the plain, to the great amazement of all the 
spectators. But he arose neither angry nor crest¬ 
fallen. 

“Brother,” said he to the Knight, “thou shouldst 
have used thy strength with more discretion. I had 
mumbled but a lame mass an thou hadst broken my 
jaw, for the piper plays ill that wants the nether 
chops. Nevertheless, there is my hand, in friendly 
witness, that I will exchange no more cuffs with thee, 
having been a loser by the barter. End now all un¬ 
kindness. Let us put the Jew to ransom, since the 
leopard will not change his spots, and a Jew he will 
continue to be.” 

“The Priest,” said Clement, “is not half so con¬ 
fident of the Jew’s conversion, since he received that 
buffet on the ear.” 

“Go to, knave, what pratest thou of conversions? 
—what, is there no respect?—all masters and no 
men?—I tell thee, fellow, I was somewhat totty when 
I received the good knight’s blow, or I had kept my 
ground under it. But an thou gibest more of it, 


IVANHOE 


445 


thou shalt learn I can give as well as take/' 

“Peace all!" said the Captain. “And thou, Jew, 
think of thy ransom; thou needest not to be told 
that thy race are held to be accursed in all Christian 
communities, and trust me that we cannot endure 
thy presence among us. Think, therefore, of an 
offer, while I examine a prisoner of another cast." 

“Were many of Front-de-Bceuf’s men taken?" 
demanded the Black Knight. 

“None of note enough to be put to ransom," an¬ 
swered the Captain; “a set of hilding fellows there 
were, whom we dismissed to find them a new master 
—enough had been done for revenge and profit; the 
bunch of them were not worth a cardecu. The pris¬ 
oner I speak of is better booty—a jolly monk riding 
to visit his leman, an I may judge by his horse-gear 
and wearing apparel.—Here cometh the worthy pre¬ 
late, as pert as a pyet. And, between two yeomen, 
was brought before the silvan throne of the outlaw 
Chief, our old friend, Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx. 


Question: Why is the Prior brought in here? 
lamentations III, 30. 






CHAPTER XXXIII 


——Flower of warriors, 

How is’t with Titus Lartius? 

Martins. As with a man busied about decrees, 
Condemning some to death and some to exile, 
Ransoming him or pitying, threatening the other. 

Coriolanus. 

The captive Abbot’s features and manners exhib¬ 
ited a whimsical mixture of offended pride, and de¬ 
ranged foppery and bodily terror. 

“Why, how now, my masters?” said he, with 
a voice in which all three emotions were blended. 
“What order is this among ye? Be ye Turks or 
Christians that handle a churchman?—Know ye 
what it is, manus imponere 1 in servos Domini? Ye 
have plundered my mails—torn my cope of curious 
cut lace, which might have served a cardinal!—An¬ 
other in my place would have been at his excommuni- 
cabo vos , 2 but I am placable, and if ye order forth 
my palfreys, release my brethren, and restore my 
mails, tell down with all speed an hundred crowns 
to be expended in masses at the high altar of Jor- 
vaulx Abbey, and make up your vow to eat no venison 
until next Pentecost, it may be you shall hear no 
more of this mad frolic.” 

“Holy Father,” said the chief Outlaw, “it grieves 
me to think that you have met with such usage from 
any of my followers, as calls for your fatherly repre¬ 
hension.” 

“Usage!” echoed the priest, encouraged by the 
mild tone of the silvan leader; “it were usage fit 
for no hound of good race—much less for a Chris¬ 
tian—far less for a priest—and least of all for the 

3 To lay hands on the servants of the Lord. 

3 Shut you out from the church, 



IVANHOE 


447 


Prior of the holy community of Jorvaulx. Here is 
a profane and drunken minstrel, called Allan-a-Dale 
j —nebulo quidam 1 —who has menaced me with cor¬ 
poral punishment—nay, with death itself, an I pay 
,not down four hundred crowns of ransom, to the boot 2 
; of all the treasure he hath already robbed me of— 
gold chain and gymmal ring to an unknown value; 
besides what is broken and spoiled .among their rude 
; hands, such as my pouncet box and silver crisping- 
tongs.” 

“It is impossible that Allan-a-Dale can have thus 
treated a man of your reverend bearing,” replied the 
Captain. 

“It is true as the gospel of Saint Nicodemus ,” 3 
said the Prior; “he swore, with many a cruel north- 
I country oath, that he would hang me up on the 
! highest tree in the greenwood.” 

“Did he so in very deed? Nay, then, reverend 
father, I think you had better comply with his de¬ 
mands—for Allan-a-Dale 4 is the very man to abide 
by his word when he has so pledged it.” 

“You do but jest with me,” said the astounded 
Prior, with a forced laugh; “and I love a good jest 
with all my heart. But, ha! ha! ha! when the mirth 
has lasted the livelong night, it is time to be grave 
in the morning.” 

“And I am as grave as a father confessor,” replied 
the Outlaw; “you must pay a round ransom, Sir 
Prior, or your convent is likely to be called to a 
new election; for your place will know you no more.” 

*A certain good for nothing. 

2 Over and above. 

Supposed to be one of the anacryphal writings. 

4 “A commissory is said to have received similar consola¬ 
tion from a certain commander-in-chief, to whom he com¬ 
plained that a general officer had used such threat towards 
him as that in the text.” (Scott’s note). 





448 


IVANHOE 


“Are ye Christians,” said the Prior, “and hole 
this language to a churchman ?” 

“Christians! ay, marry are we, and have divinity] 
among us to boot,” answered the Outlaw. “Let ou] 
buxom chaplain stand forth, and expound to thn 
reverend father the texts which concern this mat 
ter.” 

The Friar, half-drunk, half-sober, had huddled i 
friar’s frock over his green cassock, and now sum 
moning together whatever scraps of learning he hac 
acquired by rote in former days, “Holy father,’ 
said he, “Deus faciat 1 salaam benignitatem vestram 
—You are welcome to the greenwood.’ 4 

“What profane mummery is this?” said th<; 
Prior. “Friend, if thou be’st indeed of the church 
it were a better deed to show me how I may escape 
from these men’s hands, than to stand ducking anc 
grinning here like a morris-dancer.” 3 

“Truly, reverend father,” said the Friar, “3j 
know but one mode in which thou mayst escape 
This is Saint Andrew’s day 3 with us, we are taking 
our tithes.” 

“But not of the church, then, I trust, my gooc 
brother?” said the Prior. 

“Of church and lay,” said the Friar; “and there¬ 
fore, Sir Prior, facite* vobis amicos de Mammone 
iniquitatis —make yourselves friends of the Mammor 
of unrighteousness, for no other friendship is like tc 
serve your turn.” 

“I love a jolly woodsman at heart,” said the Prior 


TJod save your reverence. 

2 A dancer, grotesquely dressed, who performs at May 
Day festivals, etc. 

“November 30, celebrated in Greek, Roman, and Englisl 
churches. 

4 Luke XVI, 9. 






IVANHOE 


449 


softening his tone; “come, ye must not deal too hard 
with me—I can well 1 of woodcraft, and can wind a 
horn clear and lustily, and hollo till every oak rings 
again—Come, ye must not deal too hard with me.” 

“Give him a horn,” said the Outlaw; “we will 
prove the skill he boasts of.” 

The Prior Aymer winded a blast accordingly. 
! The Captain shook his head. 

“Sir Prior,” he said, “thou blowest a merry note, 
but it may not ransom thee—we cannot afford, as 
the legend on a good knight’s shield hath it, to set 
thee free for a blast. Moreover, I have found thee 
—thou art one of those, who, with new French graces 
and Tra-li-ras, disturb the ancient English bugle 
notes.—Prior, that last flourish on the recheat hath 
added fifty crowns to thy ransom for corrupting the 
true old manly blasts of venerie. 

“Well, friend,” said the Abbot, peevishly, “thou 
art ill to please with thy woodcraft. I pray thee be 
more conformable in this matter of my ransom. At 
a word—since I must needs, for once, hold a candle 
to the devil—what ransom am I to pay for walking 
on Watling-street, without having fifty men at my 
back ?”. 

“Were it not well,” said the Lieutenant of the 
gang apart to the Captain, “that the Prior should 
name the Jew’s ransom, and the Jew name the 
Prior's?” 

“Thou art a mad knave,” said the Captain, “but 
thy plan transcends! 2 —Here, Jew, step forth. Look 
at that holy Fathdr Aymer, Prior of the rich Abbey 
of Jorvaulx, and tell us at what ransom we should 
hold him?—Thou knowest the income of his con¬ 
vent, I warrant thee.” 


] I know well. 
Ts excellent. 



450 


IVANHOE 


“0, assuredly,” said Isaac. “I have trafficked 
with; the good fathers, and bought wheat and barley, 
and fruits of the earth, and also much wool. 0, it 
is a rich Abbey-stead, and they do live upon the 
fat, and drink the sweet wines upon the lees, these 
good fathers of Jorvaulx. Ah, if an outcast like me 
had such a home to go to, and such incomings by the 
year and by the month, I would pay much gold and 
silver to redeem my captivity.” 

“Hound of a Jew!” exclaimed the Prior, “no one 
knows better than thy own cursed self, that our holy 
house of God is indebted for the finishing of our 
chancel-” 

“And for the storing of your cellars in the last 
season with the due allowance of Gascon wine,” 
interrupted the Jew; “but that—that is small 
matters.” 

“Hear the infidel dog!” said the churchman; “he 
jangles as if our holy community did come under 
debts for the wines we have a license to drink, prop¬ 
ter ?iecessitatem 1 et ad frigus depellendum. The 
circumcised villain blasphemeth the holy church, 
and Christian men listen and rebuke him not!” 

^ “All this helps nothing,” said the leader.— 
“Isaac, pronounce what he may pay, without flay¬ 
ing both hide and hair.” 

“An six hundred crowns,” said Isaac, “the good 1 
Prior might well pay to your honored valors, and 
never sit less soft in his stall.” 

Stx hundred crowns,” said the leader, gravely; 

“I am contented—thou hast well spoken, Isaac— 
six hundred crowns.—It is a sentence, Sir Prior.” 

“A sentence!—a sentence!” exclaimed the band; 
“Solomon had not done it better.” 

“ Tho u hearest thy doom, Prior,” said the leader. I 


1 0n account of necessity and to drive away the cold. 




Ivan hoe 


451 


“Ye are mad, my masters/' said the Prior; 
“where am I to find such a sum? If I sell the very 
pyx and candlesticks on the altar at Jorvaulx. I 
shall scarce raise the half; and it will be necessary 
for that purpose that I go to Jorvaulx myself; ye 
may retain as borrows 1 my two priests.” 

“That will be but blind trust,” said the Outlaw; 
“we will retain thee, Prior, and send them to fetch 
thy ransom. Thou shalt not want a cup of wine and 
a collop of venison the while; and if thou lovest 
: woodcraft, thou shalt see such as your north country 
never witnessed.” 

“Or, if so please you,” said Isaac, willing to 
curry favor with the outlaws, “I can send to York 
for the six hundred crowns, out of certain monies in 
my hands, if so be that the most reverend Prior 
present will grant me a quittance.” 

“He shall grant thee whatever thou dost list, 
Isaac,” said the Captain; “and thou shalt lay down 
the redemption money for Prior Aymer as well as 
for thyself.” 

“For myself! ah, courageous sirs,” said the Jew, 
“I am a broken and impoverished man; a beggar’s 
staff must be my portion through life, supposing I 
were to pay you fifty crowns.” 

“The Prior shall judge of that matter,” replied 
the Captain—“How say you, Father Aymer? Can 
the Jew afford a good ransom?” 

“Can he afford a ransom?” answered the Prior 
—“Is he not Isaac of York, rich enough to redeem 
the captivity of the ten tribes of Israel, who were 
led into Assyrian bondage?—I have seen but little 
of him myself, but our cellarer and treasurer have 

^‘Borrows, signifies pledges. Hence our word to borrow, 
because we’ pledge ourselves to restore what is lent.” 
(Scott’s notel. 






452 


IVANHOE 


dealt largely with him, and report says that his 
house at York is so full of gold and silver as is a 
shame in any Christian land. Marvel it is to all 
living Christian hearts that such gnawing adders 
should be suffered to eat into the bowels of the state, 
and even of the holy church herself, with foul usu¬ 
ries and extortions.” 

“Hold, father,” said the Jew, “mitigate and 
assuage your choler. I pray of your reverence to re¬ 
member that I force my moneys upon no one. But 
when churchmen and laymen, prince and prior, 
knight and priest, come knocking to Isaac’s door, 
they borrow not his shekels with these uncivil terms. 
It is then, Friend Isaac, will you pleasure us in this 
matter, and our day shall be truly kept, so God sa’ 
me?—and Kind Isaac, if ever you served man, show 
yourself a friend in this need! And when the day 
comes, and I ask my own, then what hear I but 
Damned Jew, and The curse of Egypt on your tribe, 
and all that may stir up the rude and uncivil popu¬ 
lace against poor strangers!” 

“Prior,” said the Captain, “Jew though he be, 
he hath in this spoken, well. Do thou, therefore, 
name his ransom, as he named thine, without farther 
rude terms.” 

“None but latro famosus 1 —the interpretation where¬ 
of,” said the Prior, “will I give at some other 
time and tide—would place a Christian prelate and 
an unbaptized Jew upon the same bench. But since 
ve require me to put a price upon this caitiff, I tell 
you openly that ye will wrong yourselves if you take 
from him a penny under a thousand crowns.” 

“A sentence!—a sentence!” exclaimed the chief 
Outlaw. 

“A s entence!—a sentence!” shouted his assessors; 


a Noted robber. 





XVANHOE 


453 


the Christian has shown his good nurture, and 
dealt with us more generously than the Jew ” 

‘ ^ “The God of my fathers, help me!” said the Jew; 
8 “will ye bear to the ground an impoverished crea- 
1 ture? I am this day childless, and will ye deprive 
' me of the means of livelihood?” 

“Thou wilt have the less to provide for, Jew, if 
thou art childless,” said Aymer. 

Alas! my lord,” said Isaac, “your law permits you 
not to know how the child of our bosom is entwined 
with the strings of our heart—0 Rebecca! daughter 
of my beloved Rachel! were each leaf on that tree 
a zecchin, and each zecchin mine own, all that mass 
of wealth would I give to know whether thou art 
alive, and escaped the hands of the Nazarene!” 

“Was not thy daughter dark-haired,” said one of 
the outlaws; “and wore she not a veil of twisted 
sendal, broidered with silver?” 

“She did!—she did!” said the old man, trembling 
with eagerness, as formerly with fear. “The blessing 
of Jacob be upon thee! canst thou tell me aught of 
her safety?” 

“It was she, then,” said the yeoman, “who was 
carried off by the proud Templar, when he broke 
through our ranks on yester-even. I had drawn my 
bow to send a shaft after him, but spared him even 
for the sake of the damsel, who I feared might take 
harm from the arrow.” 

“Oh!” answered the Jew, “I would to God thou 
hadst shot, though the arrow had pierced her bosom! 
Better the tomb of her fathers than the dishonor¬ 
able couch of the licentious and savage Templar. 
Ichabod! Ichabod! 1 the glory hath departed from my 
house!” 

“Friends,” said the Chief, looking round, “the 

*1 Samuel IV, 21. 







454 


IvANHOfi 


old man is but a Jew, nathless his grief touches me. 
—Deal uprightly with us, Isaac—will paying this ran¬ 
som of a thousand crowns leave thee altogether pen¬ 
niless ?” 

Isaac, recalled to think of his worldly goods, the 
love of which, by dint of inveterate habit, contended 
even with his parental affection, grew pale, stam¬ 
mered, and could not deny there might be some small 
surplus. 

“Well—go to—what though there be,” said the Out¬ 
law, “we will not reckon with thee too closely. With¬ 
out treasure thou mayst as well hope to redeem thy 
child from the clutches of Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, 
as to shoot a stag-royal 1 with a headless shaft.—We 
will take thee at the same ransom with Prior Aymer, 
or rather at one hundred crowns lower, which hun¬ 
dred crowns shall be mine own peculiar loss, and not 
light upon this worshipful community; and so we shall 
avoid the heinous offense of rating a Jew merchant 
as high as a Christian prelate, and thou wilt have 
six hundred crowns remaining to treat for thy daugh¬ 
ter’s ransom. Templars love the glitter of silver 
shekels as well as the sparkle of black eyes.—Hasten 
to make thy crowns chink in the ear of De Bois-Guil¬ 
bert, ere worse comes of it. Thou wilt find him, as 
our scouts have brought notice, at the next Precep- 
tory house of his Order.—Said I well, my merry 
mates?” 

The yeomen expressed their wonted acquiescence 
in their leader’s opinion; and Isaac, relieved of one 
half of his apprehensions, by learning that his daugh¬ 
ter lived, and might possibly be ransomed, threw 
himself at the feet of the generous Outlaw, and, rub¬ 
bing his beard against his buskins, sought to kiss the 

X A stag of seven years with three or more crockets or 
terminal tines on each antler. 




IVANHOE 


455 


hem of his green cassock. The Captain drew himself 
back, and extricated himself from the Jew’s grasp, 
not without some marks of contempt. 

“Nay, beshrew thee, man, up with thee! I am 
English born, and love no such Eastern prostrations— 
Kneel to God, and not to a poor sinner like me.” 

“Ay, Jew,” said Prior Aymer; “kneel to God as 
represented in the servant of his altar, and who 
knows with thy sincere repentance and due gifts to 
the shrine of Saint Robert, 1 what grace thou mayst 
acquire for thyself and thy daughter Rebecca? I 
grieve for the maiden, for she is of fair and comely 
countenance.—I beheld her in the lists of Ashby. 
Also Brian de Bois-Guilbert is one with whom I 
may do much—bethink thee how thou mayst deserve 
I my good word with him.” 

I “Alas! alas!” said the Jew, “on every hand the 
spoilers arise against me—I am given as a prey unto 
the Assyrian, and a prey unto him of Egypt.” 

“And what else should be the lot of thy accursed 
race?” answered the Prior; “for what saith holy writ, 
verbum Domini a projecerunt, et sapientia est nulla 
in eis —they have cast forth the word of the Lord, 
and there is no wisdom in them; propterea dabo mul- 
ieres eorum exteris —I will give their women to. 
strangers, that is to the Templar, as in the present 
matter; et thesauros eorum haeredibus alienis, and 
their treasures to others—as in the present case to 
these honest gentlemen.” 

Isaac groaned deeply, and began to wring his hands, 
and to relapse into his state of desolation and despair. 
But the leader of the yeomen led him aside. 

“Advise thee well, Isaac,” said Locksley, “what thou 

founder of the Cistercians, to which order the abbot 
belonged. 

2 Jeremiah, VIII, 9-10. 







456 


Ivan hoe 


wilt do in this matter; my counsel to thee is to j 
make a friend of this churchman. He is vain, Isaac, 
and he is covetous; at least he needs money to sup¬ 
ply his profusion. Thou canst easily gratify his 
greed; for think not that I am blinded by thy pretexts 
of poverty. I am intimately acquainted, Isaac, with 
the very iron chest in which thou dost keep thy 
money-bags.—What! know I not the great stone be¬ 
neath the apple-tree, that leads into the vaulted cham¬ 
ber under thy garden at York?” The Jew grew as 
pale as death—“But fear nothing from me,” con¬ 
tinued the yeoman, “for we are of old acquainted. 
Dost thou not remember the sick yeoman whom thy 
fair daughter Rebecca redeemed from the gyves at 
York, and kept him in thy house till his health was 
restored, when thou didst dismiss him recovered, and 
with a piece of money?—Usurer as thou art, thou 
didst never place a coin at better interest than that 
poor silver mark, for it has this day saved thee five 
hundred crowns.” 

“And thou art he whom we called Diccon Bend- 
the-Bow?” said Isaac; “I thought ever I knew the 
accent of thy voice.” 

“I am Bend-the-Bow,” said the Captain, “and 
Locksley, and have a good name besides all these.” 

“But thou art mistaken, good Bend-the-Bow, con¬ 
cerning that same vaulted apartment. So help me 
Heaven, as there is naught in it but some merchan¬ 
dises which I will gladly part with to you—one hun¬ 
dred yards of Lincoln green to make doublets to thy 
men, and a hundred staves of Spanish yew to make 
bows, and one hundred silken bowstrings, tough, 
round, and sound—these will I send thee for thy 

Question : What does Locksley know about Isaac that 
frightens Isaac? 

Question: Why is Locksley merciful to Isaac! 







IVANHOE 


457 


[rood-will, honest Diccon, an thou wilt keep silence 
ibout the vault, my good Diccon.” 

“Silent as a dormouse,” said the Outlaw; “and 
lever trust me but I am grieved for thy daughter. 
But I may not help it.—The Templar’s lances are 
too strong for my archery in the open field—they 
would scatter us like dust. Had I but known it was 
Rebecca when she was borne off, something might 
have been done; but now thou must needs proceed 
by policy. Come, shall I treat for thee with the 
Prior?” 

“In God’s name, Diccon. an thou canst, aid me to 
recover the child of my bosom!” 

“Do not thou interrupt me with thine ill-timed 
avarice,” said the Outlaw, “and I will deal with him 
in thy behalf.” 

He then turned from the Jew, who followed him, 
however, as closely as his shadow. 

“Prior Aymer,” said the Captain, “come apart with 
me under this tree. Men say thou dost love wine, 
and a lady’s smile, better than beseems thy Order, 
Sir Priest; but with that I have naught to do. I 
have heard, too, thou dost love a brace of good dogs 
and a fleet horse, and it may well be that, loving 
things which are costly to come by, thou hatest not 
a purse of gold. But I have never heard that thou 
didst love oppression or cruelty.—Now, here is Isaac 
willing to give thee the means of pleasure and pas¬ 
time in a bag containing one hundred marks of silver, 
if thy intercession with thine ally the Templar sha 
avail to procure the freedom of his daughter.” 

“In safety and honor, as when taken from me, 
said the Jew, “otherwise it is no bargain.” 

“Peace Isaac,” said the Outlaw, “or I give up thine 
interest.—What say you to this my purpose, Prior 
Aymer?” 






458 


Ivan hoe 


“The matter,” quoth the Prior, “is of a mixed con¬ 
dition ; for, if I do a good deed on the one hand, yet, 
on the other, it goeth to the vantage of a Jew, and 
in so much is against my conscience. Yet, if the 
Israelite will advantage the Church by giving me 
somewhat over to the building of our dortour, I will 
take it on my conscience to aid him in the matter of 
his daughter.” 

“For a score of marks to the dortour,” said the 
Outlaw,—“Be still, I say, Isaac!—or for a brace of 
silver candlesticks to the altar, we will not stand with 
you.” 

“Nay, but, good Diccon Bend-the-Bow—” said Isaac, 
endeavoring to interpose. 

“Good Jew—good beast—good earthworm!” said 
the yeoman, losing patience; “an thou dost go on to 
put thy filthy lucre in the balance with thy daughter’s 
life and honor, by Heaven, I will strip thee of every 
maravedi thou hast in the world, before three days 
are out!” 

Isaac shrunk together, and was silent. 

“And what pledge am I to have for all this?” said 
the Prior. 

“When Isaac returns successful through your med¬ 
iation,” said the Outlaw, “I swear by Saint Hubert, I 
will see that he pays thee the money in good silver, 
or I will reckon with him for it in such sort, he had 
better have paid twenty such sums.” 

“Well then, Jew,” said Aymer, “since I must needs 
meddle in this matter, let me have the use of thy 
writing-tablets—though, hold—rather than use thy 
pen, I would fast for twenty-four hours, and where 
shall I find one?” 

“If your holy scruples can dispense with using the 
Jew’s tablets, for the pen I can find a remedy,” said 
the yeoman; and, bending his bow, he aimed his 
shaft at a wild-goose which was soaring over their 


IVANHOE 


459 


heads, the advance-guard of a phalanx of his tribe, 
which were winging their way to the distant and 
Isolitary fens of Holderness. The bird came flutter¬ 
ing down, transfixed with the arrow. 

“There, Prior,” said the Captain, “are quills enow 
to supply all the monks of Jorvaulx for the next 
hundred years, and they take not to writing chrom- 


The Prior sat down, and at great leisure indited 
an epistle to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and having care¬ 
fully sealed up the tablets, delivered them to the Jew, 
saying, “This will be thy safe-conduct to the Precep- 
tory of Templestowe, and, as I think, is most likely 
to accomplish the delivery of thy daughter, if itte 
well backed with proffers of advantage and commodi¬ 
ty at thine own hand; for, trust me well, the good 
Knight Bois-Builbert is of their con-fraternity that 

do naught for naught.” • ,, 

“Well, Prior,” said the Outlaw, I will detain thee 
no longer here than to give the Jew a quittance for 
the six hundred crowns at which thy ransom is fixe 
—I accept of him for my paymaster; and if I hear 
that ye boggle at allowing him in his accompts the 
sum so paid by him, Saint Mary refuse me an I 
burn not the abbey over thine head, though I hang 
ten vears the sooner!” 

With a much worse grace than that wherewith he 
had penned the letter to Bois-Guilbert, the lW 
wrote an acquittance, discharging Isaac of York of 
six hundred crowns, advanced to him in his need for 
acquittal of his ransom, and faithfully promising to 
hold true compt with him for that sum. 

“\nd now,” said Prior Aymer, ‘‘I will pray you 
of restitution of my mules and palfreys, and the 
freedom of the reverend brethren attending upon me, 
and also of the gymmal rings, jewels, and fair ves¬ 
tures, of which I have been despoiled, having now 




460 


IVANHOE 


satisfied you for my ransom as a true prisoner.” 

“Touching your brethren, Sir Prior,” said Locks- 
ley, “they shall have present freedom, it were un¬ 
just to detain them; touching your horses and mules, 
they shall also be restored, with such spending-money 
as may enable you to reach York, for it were cruel 
to deprive you of the means of journeying.—But as 
concerning rings, jewels, chains, and what else, you 
must understand that we are men of tender con¬ 
sciences, and will not yield to a venerable man like 
* yourself, who should be dead to the vanities of this 
life, the strong temptation to break the rule of his 
foundation, by wearing rings, chains, or other vain 
gauds.” 

“Think what you do, my masters,” said the Prior, 
“ere you put your hand on the Church’s patrimony. 
These things are inter res sacras and I wot not what 
judgment might ensue were they to be handled by 
laical hands.” 

“I will take care of that, reverend Prior,” said the 
hermit of Copmanhurst; “for I will wear them my¬ 
self.” 

“Friend, or brother,” said the Prior, in answer to 
this solution of his doubts, “if thou hast really tak¬ 
en religious orders, I pray thee to look how thou wilt 
answer to thine official for the share thou hast taken 
in this day’s work.” 

“Friend Prior,” returned the hermit, “you are to 
know that I belong to a little diocese, where I am 
my own diocesan, 1 2 and care as little for the Bishop 
of York as I do for the Abbot of Jorvaulx, the Prior 
and all the convent.” 

“Thou art utterly irregular,” said the Prior; “one 
of those disorderly men, who, taking on them the 


1 Among sacred things. 

2 Bishop. 



IVANHOE 


461 


sacred character without due cause, profane the holy 
rites, and endanger the souls of those who take coun¬ 
sel at their hands; hapides pro pane 1 2 condonantes iis, 
giving them stones instead of bread, as the Vulgate 
hath it.” 

“Nay,” said the Friar, “an my brain-pan could 
have been broken by Latin, it had not held so long 
together.—I say, that easing the world of such mis- 
proud priests as thou art of their jewels and their 
gimcracks, is a lawful spoiling of the Egyptians.” 2 

“Thou be’st a hedge-priest,” said the Prior, in 
great wrath, “excommunicabo vos.” 3 

“Thou be’st thyself more like a thief and a here¬ 
tic,” 5 said the Friar, equally indignant; “I will pouch 
up 4 no such affront before my parishioners, as thou 
thinkest it not shame to put upon me, although I be 
a reverend brother to thee. Ossa ejus 5 per f ring am, 
I will break your bones, as the Vulgate hath it.” 

“Hola!” cried the Captain, “come the reverend 
brethren to such terms?—Keep thine assurance of 
peace, Friar.—Prior, an thou hast not made thy peace 
perfect with God, provoke the Friar no further.— 
Hermit, let the reverend father depart in peace, as 
a ransomed man.” 

The yeomen separated the incensed priests who 
continued to raise their voices, vituperating each oth¬ 
er in bad Latin, which the Prior delivered the more 
fluently, and the Hermit with the greater vehemence. 
The Prior at length recollected himself sufficiently to 
be aware that he was compromising his dignity, by 
squabbling with such a hedge-priest as the Outlaw’s 

1 Luke XI, 11. 

2 Exodus XII, 36. 

3 See appendix. 

4 Pocket, put up wjth. 

'Isaiah XXXVIII, 13. 




462 


Ivan hoe 


chaplain, and being joined by his attendants, rode off j 
with considerbly less pomp, and in a much more< 
apostolical condition, so far as worldly matters were j 
concerned, than he had exhibited before this encoun- , 
ter. 

It remained that the Jew should produce some se¬ 
curity for the ransom which he was to pay on the 
Prior’s account, as well as upon his own. He gave, 
accordingly, an order sealed with his signet, to a 
brother of his tribe at York, requiring him to pay 
to the bearer the sum of a thousand crowns, and to 
deliver certain merchandises specified in the note. 

“My brother Sheva,” he said, groaning deeply, 
“hath the key of my warehouses.” 

“And of the vaulted chamber,” whispered Locksley.: 

“No, no—may Heaven forfend!” said Isaac; “evil 
is the hour that let any one whomsoever into that 
secret!” 

“It is safe with me,” said the Outlaw, “so be that 
this thy scroll produce the sum therein nominated 
and set down.—-But what now, Isaac? art dead? art 
stupefied? hath the payment of a thousand crowns 
put thy daughter’s peril out of thy mind?” 

The Jew started to his feet—“No, Diccon, no—I 
will presently set forth.—Farewell, thou whom I may 
not call good, and dare not and will not call evil.” 

Yet ere Isaac departed, the Outlaw Chief bestowed 
on him this parting advice:—“Be liberal of thine of¬ 
fers, Isaac, and spare not thy purse for thy daugh¬ 
ter’s safety. Credit me, that the gold thou shalt 
spare in her cause, will hereafter give thee as much 
agony as if it were poured molten down thy throat.” 

Isaac acquiesced with a deep groan, and set forth 
on his journey, accompanied by two tall foresters, 
who were to be his guides, and at the same time his 
guards, through the wood. 

The Black Knight, who had seen with no small in- 





IVANHOE 


463 


* 


terest these various proceedings, now took his leave 

the Outlaw in turn; nor could he avoid expressing 
his surprise at having witnessed so much of civil poli¬ 
cy amongst persons cast out from all the ordinary 
protection and influence of the laws. 

“Good fruit, Sir Knight/’ said the yeoman, “will 
sometimes grow on a sorry tree; and evil times are 
not always productive of evil alone and unmixed. 
Amongst those who are drawn into this lawless state, 
there are, doubtless, numbers who wish to exercise 
its license with some moderation, and some who re¬ 
gret, it may be, that they are obliged to follow such 
a trade at all.” 

“And to one of those,” said the Knight, “I am now, 
I presume, speaking?” 

“Sir Knight,” said the Outlaw, “we have each our 
secret. You are welcome to form your judgment of 
|me, and I may use my conjectures touching you, 
though neither of our shafts may hit the mark they 
are shot at. But as I do not pray to be admitted 
into your mystery, be not offended that I preserve 
my own.” 

“i crave pardon, brave Outlaw,” said the Knight, 
“your reproof is just. But it may be we shah meet 
hereafter with less of concealment on either side. 
Meanwhile we part friends, do we not?” 

“There is my hand upon it,” said Locksley; “and 
I will call it the hand of a true Englishman, though 
an outlaw for the present.” 

“And there is mine in return,” said the Knight, 
“and I hold it honored by being clasped with yours. 
For he that does good having the unlimited power to 
do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which 
he performs, but for the evil which he forbears. Fare 
thee well, gallant Outlaw!” 



464 


Ivan hoe 




Thus parted that fair fellowship; and He of the 
Fetterlock, mounting upon his strong war-horse, rode 
off through the forest. 











Question: What changes the spirit of the chapter to a 
serious note? 





CHAPTER XXXIV 


King John. I’ll tell thee what, my friend, 

He is a very serpent in my way; 

And whereso’er this foot of mine doth tread, 

He lies before me.-Dost tlion understand me! 

King John. 

There was brave feasting in the Castle of York, 
to which Prince John had invited those nobles, 
prelates, and leaders, by whose assistance he hoped 
to carry through his ambitious projects upon his 
brother’s throne. Waldemar Fitzurse, his able and 
politic agent, was at secret work among them, tem¬ 
pering all to that pitch of courage which was neces¬ 
sary in making an open declaration of their pur¬ 
pose. But their enterprise was delayed by the ab¬ 
sence of more than one main limb of the con¬ 
federacy. The stubborn and daring, though brutal 
courage of Front-de-Bceuf, the bouyant spirit and 
bold bearing of De Bracy; the sagacity, martial 
experience, and renowned valor of Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert, were important to the success of their 
conspiracy; and, while cursing in secret their un¬ 
necessary and unmeaning absence, neither John 
nor his advisor dared to proceed without them. 
Isaac the Jew also seemed to have vanished, and 
with him the hope of certain sums of money, 
making up the subsidy for which Prince John had 
contracted with that Israelite and his brethren. 
This deficiency was likely to prove perilous in an 
emergency so critical. 

It was on the morning after the fall of Torquil- 
stone, that a confused report began to spread 
abroad in the city of York, that De Bracy and Bois- 
Guilbert, with their confederate Front-de-Bceuf, 
had been taken or slain. Waldemar brought the 




466 


Ivan hoe 


rumor to Prince John, announcing that he feared 
its truth the more that they had set out with a 
small attendance, for the purpose of committing an 
assault on the Saxon Cedric and his attendants. 
At another time the Prince would have treated 
this deed of violence as a good jest; but now, that 
it interfered with and impeded his own plans, he 
exclaimed against the perpetrators, and spoke of 
the broken laws, and the infringement of public 
order and of private property, in a tone which 
might have become King Alfred. 

“The unprincipled marauders,” he said—“were 
I ever to become monarch of England, I would hang 
such transgressors over the drawbridges of their 
own castles.” 

“But to become monarch of England,” said his 
Ahithophel 1 coolly, “t is necessary not only that 
your Grace should endure the transgressions of 
these unprincipled marauders, but that you should 
afford them your protection, notwithstanding your 
laudable zeal for the laws they are in the habit 
of infringing. We shall be finely helped, if the 
churl Saxons should have realized your Grace’s 
vision, of converting feudal drawbridges into gib¬ 
bets; and yonder bold-spirited Cedric seemeth one 
to whom such an imagination might occur. Your 
Grace is well aware, it will be dangerous to stir 
without Front-de-Bceuf, De Bracy, and the Temp¬ 
lar; and yet we have gone too far to recede with 
safety.” 

Prince John struck his forehead with impatience, 
and then began to stride up and down the apart¬ 
ment. 

“The villains,” he said, “the base treacherous vil¬ 
lains, to desert me at this pinch!” 


HI Samuel XV, 12; XVII, 23. 



IVANHOE 


467 


“Nay, say rather the feather-pated giddy mad¬ 
men,said Waldemar, “who must be toying with 
follies when such business was in hand.” 

“What is to be done?” said the Prince, stopping 
short before Waldemar. 

“I know nothing which can be done,” answered 
his counselor, “save that which I have already 
taken order for,—I came not to bewail this evil 
chance with your Grace, until T had done my best 
to remedy it.” 

“Thou art ever my better angel, Waldemar,” said 
the Prince; “and when I have such a chancellor to 
advise withal, the reign of John will be renowned 
in our annals.—What hast thou commanded?” 

“I have ordered Louis Winkelbrand, De Bracy’s 
lieutenant, to cause his trumpet sound to horse, and 
to display his banner, and to set presently forth 
towards the castle of Front-de-Boeuf to do what 
yet may be done for the succor of our friend.” 

Prince John’s face flushed with the pride of a 
spoilt child, who has undergone what it conceives 
to be an insult. 

“By the face of God!” he said, “Waldemar 
Fitzurse, much hast thou taken upon thee! and 
over malapert thou wert to cause trumpet to blow, 
or banner to be raised, in a town where ourselves 
were in presence, without our express command.” 

“I crave your Grace’s pardon,” said Fitzurse, 
internally cursing the idle vanity of his patron; 
“but when time pressed, and even the loss of 
minutes might be fatal, I judged it best to take 
this much burden upon me, in a matter of such 
importance to your Grace’s interest.” 

“Thou art pardoned, Fitzurse,” said the Prince, 
gravely; “thy purpose hath atoned for thy hasty 
rashness.-—But whom have we here?—De Bracy 





468 


IVANHOE 


himself; by the rood!—and in strange guise doth 
he come before us.” 

It was indeed De Bracy—“bloody with spurring, 
fiery red with speed.” His armor bore all the marks 
of the late obstinate fray, being broken, defaced, 
and stained with blood in many places, and covered 
with clay and dust from the crest to the spur. 
Undoing his helmet, he placed it on the table, and 
stood a moment as if to collect himself before he 
told his news. 

“De Bracy,” said Prince John, “what means 
this?—Speak, I charge thee!—Are the Saxons in 
rebellion?” 

“Speak, De Bracy,” said Fitzurse, almost in the 
same moment with his master, “thou wert wont to 
be a man.—Where is the Templar?—where is 
Front-de-Bceuf ?” 

“The Templar is fled,” said De Bracy; “Front- 
de-Boeuf you will never see more. He has found 
a red grave among the blazing rafters of his own 
castle, and I alone am escaped to tell you.” 

“Cold news,” said Waldemar, “to us, though you 
speak of fire and conflagration.” 

“The worst news is not yet said,” answered De 
Bracy; and, coming up to Prince John, he uttered 
in a low and emphatic tone—“Richard is in Eng¬ 
land—I have seen and spoken with him.” 

Prince John turned pale, tottered, and caught at 
the back of an oaken bench to support himself— 
much like to a man who receives an arrow in his 
t>osom. 

“Thou ravest, De Bracy,” said Fitzurse; “it 
cannot be.” 

“It is as true as truth itself,” said De Bracy; 
“I was his prisoner, and spoke with him.” 







IVANHOE 


469 


“With Richard Plantagenet, sayest thou?” con¬ 
tinued Fitzurse. 

“With Richard Plantagenet,” replied De Bracy, 
“with Richard Coeur-de-Lion—with Richard of 
England.” 

“And thou wert his prisoner?” said Waldemar; 
“he is then at the head of a power?” 

“No—only a few outlawed yeomen were around 
him, and to these his person is unknown. I heard 
him say he was about to depart from them. He 
joined them only to assist at the storming of Tor- 
quilstone.” 

“Ay,” said Fitzurse, “such is indeed the fash¬ 
ion of Richard—a true knight-errant he, and will 
wander in wild adventure, trusting the prowess of 
his single arm, like any Sir Guy 1 or Sir Bevis, 
while the weighty affairs of his kingdom slumber, 
and his own safety is endangered.—What dost 
thou propose to do, De Bracy?” 

“I?—I offered Richard the service of my Free 
Lances, and he refused them—I will lead them to 
Hull , 2 seize on shipping, and embark for Flanders ,* 1 
thanks to the bustling times, a man of action will 
always find employment. And thou, Waldemar, 
wilt thou take lance and shield, and lay down thy 
policies, and wend along with me, and share the 
fate which God sends us?” 

“I am too old, Miaurice, and I have a daughter,” 
answered Waldemar. 

“Give her to me, Fitzurse, and I will maintain 


’Heroes of English romance. 

2 Coast town in England. 

8 Belgium, Holland, and France. 

Question : Have yon suspected, before this, who the 
Black Knight was? 



470 


Ivan hoe 


her as fits her rank, with the help of lance and 
stirrup,” said De Bracy. 

“Not so,” answered Fitzurse; “I will take sanctu¬ 
ary 1 in this church of Saint Peter—the Archbishop 2 
is my sworn brother.” 

During this discourse, Prince John had gradually 
awakened from the stupor into which he had been 
thrown by the unexpected intelligence, and had been 
attentive to the conversation which passed betwixt 
his followers. “They fall off from me,” he said to 
himself, “they hold no more by me than a withered 
leaf by the bough when a breeze blows on it!—Hell 
and fiends! can I shape no means for myself when 
I am deserted by these cravens?”—He paused, and 
there was an expression of diabolical passion in 
the constrained laugh with which he at length 
broke in on their conversation. 

“Ha, ha, ha! my good lords, by the light of Our 
Lady’s brow, I held ye sage men, bold men, ready- 
witted men; yet ye throw down wealth, honor, 
pleasure, all that our noble game promised you, at 
the moment it might be won by one bold cast!” 

“I understand you not,” said De Bracy. “As 
soon as Richard’s return is blown abroad, he will 
be at the head of an army, and all is then over with 
us. I would counsel you, my lord, either to fly 
to France or take the protection of the Queen 
Mother .” 3 

“I seek no safety for myself,” said Prince John, 
haughtily; “that I could secure by a word spoken 
to my brother. But although you, De Bracy, and 

Certain churches were set apart as places of refuge for 
fugitives from justice. 

2 The archbishop of York was a half-brother of John. He 
was also against Richard. 

3 Eleanor of Aquitaine. 






IVANHOE 471 

you Waldemar Fitzurse, are so ready to abandon 
me, I should not greatly delight to see your heads 
blackening on Clifford's gate yonder. Thinkest 
j thou, Waldemar, that the wily Archbishop will not 
| suffer thee to be taken from the very horns of 
the altar, would it make his peace with King 
Richard? And forgettest thou, De Bracy, that 
Robert Estoteville lies betwixt thee and Hull with 
all his forces, and that the Earl of Essex is gather¬ 
ing his followers? If we had reason to fear these 
levies even before Richard’s return, trowest thou 
there is any doubt now which party their leaders 
will take? Trust me, Estoteville alone has strength 
enough to drive * all thy Free Lances into the 
Humber.”—Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy looked 
in each other’s faces with blank dismay.—“There 
! is but one road to safety,” continued the Prince, 
and his brow grew black as midnight; “this object 
of our terror journeys alone. He must be met 
| withal.” 

“Not by me,” said De Bracy, hastily; “I was his 
; prisoner, and he took me to mercy. I will not harm 
a feather in his crest.” 

“Who spoke of harming him?” said Prince John, 
with a hardened laugh; “the knave will say next 
that I meant he should slay him!—No—a prison 
were better; and whether in Britain or Austria, 
what matters it?—Things will be but as they 
were when we commenced our enterprise.—It was 
founded on the hope that Richard would remain a 
captive in Germany. Our uncle Robert 1 lived and 
died in the castle of Cardiffe.” 

“Ay, but,” said Waldemar, “your sire Henry 
sate more firm in his seat than your Grace can. I 

Eldest son of William I, and grand-uncle of John. He 
was kept a prisoner until his death by his brother Henry I. 




472 


IVANHOE 


say the best prison is that which is made by the 
sexton—no dungeon like a church vault! I have 
said my say.” 

“Prison or tomb,” said De Bracy, “I wash my 
hands of the whole matter.” 

“Villain!” said Prince John, “thou wouldst not 
bewray our counsel?” 

“Counsel was never bewrayed by me,” said De 
Bracy, haughtily, “nor must the name of villain be 
coupled with mine!” 

“Peace, Sir Knight!” said Waldemar; “and you, 
good my lord, forgive the scruples of valiant De 
Bracy; I trust I shall soon remQve them.” 

“That passes your eloquence, Fitzurse,” replied 
the Knight. 

“Why, good Sir Maurice,” rejoined the wily 
politician, “start not aside like a scared steed, 
without, at least, considering the object of your 
terror.—This Richard—but a day since, and it 
would have been thy dearest wish to have met him 
hand to hand in the ranks of battle—a hundred 
times I have heard thee wish it.” 

“Ay,” said De Bracy, “but that was as thou 
sayest, hand to hand, and in the ranks of battle! 
Thou never heardest me breathe a thought of as¬ 
saulting him alone, and in a forest.” 

“Thou are no good k'night if thou dost scruple 
at it,” said Waldemar. “Was it in battle that 
Lancelot de Lac and Sir Tristram won renown? or 
was it not by .encountering gigantic knights un¬ 
der the shade of deep and unknown forests?” 

“Ay, but I promise you,” said De Bracy, “that 
neither Tristram nor Lancelot would have been 
match, hand to hand, for Richard Plantagenet, and 
I think it was not their wont to take odds against 
a single man.” 




IVANHOE 


473 


“Thou art mad, De Bracy—what is it we propose 
to thee, a hired and retained captain of Free Com¬ 
panions, whose swords are purchased for Prince 
John’s service? Thou art apprised of our enemy, 
and then thou scruplest, though thy patron’s for¬ 
tunes, those of thy comrades, thine own, and the 
life and honor of every one amongst us, be at 
stake!” 

“I tell you,” said De Bracy, sullenly, “that he 
gave me my life. True, he sent me from his 
presence, and refused my homage—so far I owe him 
neither favor nor allegiance—but I will not lift 
hand against him.” 

“It needs not—send Louis Winkelbrand and a 
score of thy lances.” 

“Ye have sufficient ruffians of your own,” said 
De Bracy; “not one of mine shall budge on such 
an errand.” 

“Art thou so obstinate, De Bracy?” said Prince 
John; “and wilt thou forsake me, after so many 
protestations of zeal for my service?” 

“I mean it not,” said De Bracy; “I will abide 
by you in aught that becomes a knight, whether in 
the lists or in the camp; but this highway practice 
comes not within my vow.” 

“Come hither, Waldemar,” said Prince John. 
“An unhappy prince am I. My father, King 
Henry, had faithful servants—He had but to say 
that he was plagued with a factious priest, and 
the blood of Thomas a Becket, saint though he 
was, stained the steps of his own altar.—Tracy, 
Morville, Brito, loyal and daring subjects , 1 your 
names, your spirit, are extinct; and although 

Reginald Fitzurse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville, 
and Richard Brito were the gentlemen of Henry the 
Second’s household, who instigated by some passionate ex- 





474 


IVANIIOE 


Reginald Fitzurse hath left a son, he hath fallen off 
from his father’s fidelity and courage.” 

“He has fallen off from neither,” said Waldemar 
Fitzurse; “and since it may not better be, I will 
take on me the conduct of this perilous enterprise. 
Dearly, however, did my father purchase the praise 
of a zealous friend; and yet did his proof of loy¬ 
alty to Henry fall far short of what I am about to 
afford; for rather would I assail a whole calendar 
of saints, than put spear in rest again Cceur-de- 
Lion.—De Bracy, to thee I must trust to keep up 
the spirits of the doubtful, and to guard Prince 
John’s person. If you receive such news as I trust 
to send you, our enterprise will no longer wear 
a doubtful aspect.—Page,” he said, “hie to my 
lodgings, and tell my armorer to be there in readi¬ 
ness; and bid Stephen Wetheral, Broad Thoresby, 
and the Three Spears of Spyinghow, come to me 
instantly; and let the scout-master, Hugh Bardon, 
attend me also.—Adieu, my Prince, till better 
times.” Thus speaking, he left the apartment. 

“He goes to make my brother prisoner,” said 
Prince John to De Bracy, “with as little touch of 
compunction, as if it but concerned the liberty of 
a Saxon franklin. I trust he will observe our or¬ 
ders, and use our dear Richard’s person with all 
due respect.” 

De Bracy only answered by a smile. 

“By the light of Our Lady’s brow,” said Prince 
John, “our erders to him were most precise— 
though it may be you heard them not, as we stood 
together in the oriel window—most clear and posi¬ 
tive was our charge that Richard’s safety should 


pressions of their sovereign slew the celebrated Thomas a 
Becket. (Scott’s note.) 



IVANHOE 


475 


e cared for, and woe to Waldemar’s head if he 
ransgress it!” 

“I had better pass to his lodgings,” said De 
pracy, “and make him fully aware of your Grace’s 
deasure; for. as it quite escaped my ear, it may not 
Wchance have reached that of Waldemar.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Prince John, impatiently, “I 
promise thee he heard me; and, besides, I have 
arther occupation for thee. Maurice, come hither; 
et me lean on thy shoulder.” 

They walked a turn through the hall in this 
“amiliar posture, and Prince John, with an air of 
he most confidential intimacy, proceeded to say, 
‘What thinkest thou of this Waldemar Fitzurse, 
ny De Bracy?—He trusts to be our Chancellor. 
Surely we will pause ere we give an office so high 
;o one who shows evidently how little he reverences 
pur blood; by his so readily undertaking this enter¬ 
prise against Richard. Thou dost think, I warrant, 
(that thou hast lost somewhat of our regard, by thy 
boldly declining this unpleasing task. But no, 
Maurice! I rather honor thee for thy virtuous con¬ 
stancy. There are things most necessary to be 
done, the perpetrator of which we neither love nor 
honor; and there may be refusals to serve us, 
which shall rather exalt in our estimation those 
who deny our request. The arrest of my unfortun¬ 
ate brother forms no such good title to the high 
office of Chancellor; as thy chivalrous and cour¬ 
ageous denial establishes in thee to the truncheon 
of High Marshal. Think of this, De Bracy, and 
begone to thy charge.” 

“Fickle tyrant!” muttered De Bracy, as he left 
the presence of the Prince; “evil luck have they 
who trust thee. Thy Chancellor, indeed!—He who 
hath the keeping of thy conscience shall have an 



476 


IVANHOE 


easy charge, I trow. But High Marshal of Eng 
land! that”, he said, extending his arm, as if t( 
grasp the baton of office, and assuming a loftier 
stride along the antechamber, “that is indeed j 
prize worth playing for!” 

De Bracy had no sooner left the apartment thai, 
Prince John summoned an attendant. 

“Bid Hugh Bardon, our scout-master, come 
hither, as soon as he shall have spoken with Waldo, 
mar Fitzurse.” 

The scout-master arrived after a brief delay, dur, 
ing which John traversed the apartment with un 
equal and disordered steps. 

“Bardon,” said he, “what did Waldemar desir< 
of thee?” 

“Two resolute men, well acquainted with these 
northern wilds, and skillful in tracking the tread of 
man and horse.” 

“And thou hast fitted him?” 

“Let your grace never trust me else,” answered 
the master of the spies. “One is from Hexamshire; 
he is wont to trace the Tynedale and Teviotdale 
thieves, as a bloodhound follows the slot of a hurt 
deer. The other is Yorkshire bred, and has twanged 
his bowstring right oft in merry Sherwood; he 
knows each glade and dingle, copse and high-wood, 
betwixt this and Richmond.” 

“ ’Tis well,” said the Prince.—“Goes Waldemar 
forth with them?” 

“Instantly,” said Bardon. 

“With what attendance?” asked John, carelessly. 

“Broad Thoresby goes with him, and Wetheral. 
whom they call, for his cruelty, Stephen Steelheart; 
and three northern men-at-arms that belonged to 
Ralph Middleton’s gang—they are called the Spears 
of Spyinghow.” 



IVANHOE 


477 


“ Tis well,” said Prince John; then added, after 
1 moment’s pause, “Bardon, it imports our service 
aat thou keep a strict watch on Maurice de Bracy^- 
o that he shall not observe it, however. And let us 
now of his motions from time to time—with whom 
e converses, what he proposelh. Fail not in this 
s thou wilt be answerable.” 

Hugh Bardon bowed, and retired. 

“If Maurice betrays me,” said Prince John—“if 
e betrays me, as his bearing leads me to fear, I 
nil have his head, were Richard thundering at the 
ates of York.” 



CHAPTER XXXV 

Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts 
Strive with the half-starved lion for his prey, 
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering fire 
Of wild Fanaticism. Anonymous. 

Our tale now returns to Isaac of York. Mounted 
upon a mule, the gift of the Outlaw, with two tall 
yeomen to act as his guard and guides, the Jew 
had set out for the Preceptory of Templestowe, foi 
the purpose of negotiating his daughter’s redemp 
tion. The preceptory was but a day’s journey froir 
the demolished castle of 'Torquilstone, and the Jev 
had hoped to reach it before nightfall; according 
ly, having dismissed his guides at the verge of th< 
forest, and rewarded them with a piece of silver 
he began to press on with such speed as his weari 
ness permitted him to exert. But his strengtl 
failed him totally ere he had reached within fou 
miles of the Temple-Court; racking pains shot alon; 
his back and through his limbs, and the excessiv 
anguish which he felt at heart being now aug 
mented by bodily suffering, he was rendered ai 
together incapable of proceeding farther than 
small market-town, where dwelt a Jewish Rabbi c 
his tribe, eminent in the medical profession, and t 
whom Isaac was well known. Nathan Ben Isra( 
received his suffering countryman with that kinc 
ness which the law prescribed, and which the Jew 
practiced to each other. He insisted on his betal 
ing himself to repose, and used such remedies a 
were then in most repute to check the progress ( 
the fever, which terror, fatigue, ill usage, an 
sorrow had brought upon the poor old Jew. 

On the morrow, when Isaac proposed to arise ar 
pursue his journey, Nathan remonstrated again 


IVANHOE 


479 


is purpose, both as his host and as his physician, 
t might cost him, he said, his life. But Isaac re¬ 
lied, that more than life and death depended upon 
lis going that morning to Templestowe. 

“To Templestowe!” said his host with surprise; 
gain felt his pulse, and then muttered to himself, 
! His fever is abated, yet seems his mind somewhat 
ilienated and disturbed.” 

“And why not to Templestowe?” answered his 
)atient. “I grant thee, Nathan, that it is a dwell- 
ng of those to whom the despised Children of the 
5 romise are a stumbling-block and an abomination; 
ret thou knowest that pressing affairs of traffic 
sometimes carry us among these bloodthirsty Naz- 
irene soldiers, and that we visit the Preceptories 1 
)f the Templars, as well as the Commanderies of 
:he Knights Hospitallers, as they are called.” 

“I know it well,” said Nathan; “but wbttest 
hou that Lucas de Beaumanoir, the chief of their 
Order, and whom they term Grand Master, is now 
aimself at Templestowe?” 

“I know it not,” said Isaac; “our last letters 
from our brethren at Paris advised us that he was 
at that city, beseeching Philip for aid against the 
Sulton Saladine.” 

“He hath since come to England, unexpected by 
his brethren,” said Ben Israel; “and he cometh 
among them with a strong outstretched arm to 
correct and to punish. His countenance is kindled 
in anger against those who have departed from 

'“The establishments of the Knight Templars were called 
Preceptories, and the title of those who presided in the 
Order was Preceptor; as the principal Knights of St. John 
were termed Commanders, and their houses Commanderies. 
But these terms were sometimes, it would seem, used in¬ 
discriminately.” (Scott’s note). 



480 


IVANHOE 


the vow which they have made, and great is the 
fear of those sons of Belial. Thou must have 
heard of his name?” 

“It is well known unto me,” said Isaac; “the 
Gentiles deliver this Lucas Beaumanoir as a man 
zealous to slaying for every point of the Nazarene 
law; and our brethren have termed him a fierce 
destroyer of the Saracens, and a cruel tyrant to 
the Children of the Promise.” 

“And truly have they termed him,” said Nathan 
the physician. “Other Templars may be moved 
from the purpose of their heart by pleasure, or 
bribed by promise of gold and silver; but Beau¬ 
manoir is a different stamp—hating sensuality, 
despising treasure, and pressing forward to that 
which they call the crown of martyrdom—The 
God of Jacob speedily send it unto him, and unto 
them all! Specially hath this proud man extended 
his glove 1 over the children of Judah, as holy 
David over Edom, holding the murder of a Jew to 
be an offering of as sweet savor as the death of a 
Saracen. Impious and false things has he said 
even of the virtues of our medicines, as if they 
were the devices of Satan—The Lord rebuke him!” 

“Nevertheless,” said Isaac. “I must present my¬ 
self at Templestowe, though he hath made his face 
like unto a fiery furnace 2 seven times heated.” 

He then explained to Nathan the pressing cause 
of his journey. The Rabbi listened with interest, 
and testified his sympathy after the fashion of his 
people, rending his clothes, and saying, “Ah, my 
daughter!—ah, my daughter!—Alas! for the beauty 
of Zion!—Alas! for the captivity of Israel!” 

“Thou seest,” said Isaac, “how it stands with 

'Signifying power. Psalms LX, 8. 

3 Daniel III, 19. 



Ivan hoe 


481 


jne, and that I may not tarry. Peradventure, the 
presence of this Lucas Beaumanoir, being the chief 
nan over them, may turn Brian de Bois-Guilbert 
rom the ill which he doth meditate, and that he 
nay deliver to me my beloved daughter Rebecca.” 

“Go thou,” said Nathan Ben Israel, “and be 
vise, for wisdom availed Daniel in the den of lions 1 
into which he was cast; and may it go well with 
hee, even as thine tieart wisheth. Yet, if thou canst, 
reep thee from the presence of the Grand Master, 
or to do foul scorn to our people is his morning 
md evening delight. It may be if thou couldst 
!;peak with Bois-Guilbert in private, thou shalt the 
oetter prevail with him; for men say that these 
iccursed Nazarenes are not of one mind in the 
3 receptory—May their counsels be confounded 
md brought to shame! But do thou, brother, re- 
;urn to me as if it were to the house of thy father, 
md bring me word how it has sped with thee; and 
veil do I hope thou wilt bring with thee Rebecca, 
‘ven the scholar of the wise Miriam, whose cures 
he Gentiles slandered as if they had been wrought 
)y necromancy.” 

Isaac accordingly bade his friend farewell, and 
iibout an hour's riding brought him before the 
Preceptory of Templestowe. 

This establishment of the Templars was seated 
imidst fair meadows and pastures, which the de¬ 
motion of the former Preceptor had bestowed upon 
heir Order. It was strong and well fortified, a 
ooint never neglected by these knights, and which 
he disordered state of England rendered peculiarly 
lecessary. Two halberdiers, clad in black, guarded 
he drawbridge, and others, in the same sad livery, 


‘Daniel VI. 







482 


IVANHOE 


glided to and fro upon the walls with a funereal 
pace, resembling specters more than soldiers. The 
inferior officers of the Order were thus dressed, 
ever since their use of white garments, similar to 
those of the knights and esquires, had given rise to 
a combination of certain false brethren in the 
mountains of Palestine, terming themselves Temp¬ 
lars, and bringing great dishonor or the Order. 
A knight was now and then seen to cross the court 
in his long white cloak, his head depressed on his 
breast, and his arms folded. They passed each 
other, if they chanced to meet, with a slow, solemn, 
and mute greeting; for such was the rule of their 
Order, quoting thereupon the holy texts, “In many 
words 1 thou shalt not avoid sin,” and “Life and 
death are in the power of the tongue.” In a word, 
the stern ascetic rigor of the Temple discipline, 
which had been so long exchanged for prodigal and 
licentious indulgence, seemed at once to have re¬ 
vived at Templestowe under the severe eye of 
Lucas Beaumanoir. 

Isaac paused at the gate, to consider how he 
might seek entrance in the manner most likely to 
bespeak favor; for he was well aware, that to his 
unhappy race the reviving fanaticism of the Order 
was not less dangerous than their unprincipled 
licentiousness; and that his religion would be the 
object of hate and persecution in the one case, as 
his wealth would have exposed him in the other 
to the extortions of unrelenting oppression. 

Meantime Lucas Beaumanoir walked in a small 
garden belonging to the Preceptory, included with¬ 
in the precincts of its exterior fortification, and 
held sad and confidential communication with a 


.’Proverbs X, 19. 






IVANHOE 


483 


brother of his Order, who had come in his com¬ 
pany from Palestine. 

The Grand Master was a man advanced in age, 
as was testified by his long gray beard, and the 
shaggy gray eyebrows overhanging eyes, of which, 
however, years had been unable to quench the fire. 
A formidable warrior, his thin and severe features 
retained the soldier’s fierceness of expression; an 
ascetic bigot, they were no less marked by the 
emaciation of abstinence, and the spiritual pride of 
the self-satisfied devotee. Yet with these severer 
traits of physiognomy, there was mixed somewhat 
striking and noble, arising, doubtless, from the 
great part which his high office called upon him 
to act among monarchs and princes, and from the 
habitual exercise of supreme authority over the 
valiant and high-born knights, who were united 
by' the rules of the Order. His stature was tall, 
and his gait, undepressed by age and toil, was erect 
and stately. His white mantle was shaped with 
severe regularity, according to the rule of Saint 
Bernard 1 himself, being composed of what was then 
called Burrel cloth, exactly fitted to the size of the 
wearer, and bearing on the left shoulder the octan¬ 
gular cross peculiar to the Order, formed of red 
cloth. No vair or ermine decked this garment; but 
in respect of his age, the Grand Master, as per¬ 
mitted by the rules, wore his doublet lined and 
trimmed with the softest lambskin, dressed with 
the wool outwards, which was the nearest approach 
he could regularly make to the use of fur, then the 
greatest luxury of dress. In his hand he bore that 
singular abacus, or staff of office, with which Tem¬ 
plars are usually represented, having at the upper 

1 A distinguished ecclesiastic who was active as a leader 
of the second crusade. 




484 


Ivan hoe 


end a round plate, on which was engraved the cross 
of the Order, inscribed within a circle or orle, as 
heralds term it. His companion, who attended on 
this great personage, had nearly the same dress in 
all respects, but his extreme deference towards his 
Superior showed that no other equality subsisted 
between them. The preceptor, for such he was in 
rank, walked not in a line with the Grand Master, 
but just so far behind that Beaumanoir could speak 
to him without turning round his head. 

“Conrade,” said the Grand Master, “dear com¬ 
panion of my battles and my toils, to thy faithful 
bosom alone can I confide my sorrows. To thee 
alone can I tell how oft, since I came to this king¬ 
dom, I have desired to be dissolved and to be with 
the just. Not one object in England hath met mine 
eye which it could rest upon with pleasure, save 
the tombs of our brethren, beneath the massive 
roof of our Temple Church 1 in yonder proud capital. 
0, valiant Robert de Ros! did I exclaim internally, 
as I gazed upon these good soldiers of the cross, 
where they lie sculptured on their sepulchers,—0, 
worthy William de Mareschal! open your marble 
cells, and take to your repose a weary brother, 
who would rather strive with a hundred thousand 
pagans than witness the decay of our Holy Order!” 

“It is but true,” answered Conrade Mont-Fitchet, 
“it is but too true; and the irregularities of our 
brethren in England are even more gross than those 
in France.” 

“Because they are more wealthy,” answered the 
Grand Master. “Bear with me, brother, although 
I should something vaunt myself. Thou knowest 
the life I have led, keeping each point of my Order, 

*A medieval building occupied by the Knights Templars 
in London, 







IVANHOE 


485 


striving with devils embodied and disembodied, 
striking down the roaring lion, 1 who goeth about 
seeking whom he may devour, like a good knight 
and devout priest, wheresoever I met with him— 
even as blessed Saint Bernard hath prescribed to 
us in the forty-fifth capital 2 of our rule, Ut Leo 
semper 3 fermtur. But by the Holy Temple! the 
zeal which hath devoured my substance and my 
life, yea, the very nerves and marrow of my bones; 
by that very Holy Temple I swear to thee, that 
save thyself, and some few that still retain the 
ancient severity of our Order, I look upon no 
brethren whom I can bring my soul to embrace 
under that holy name. What say our statutes, and 
how do our brethren observe them? They should 
wear no vain or worldly ornament, no crest upon 
their helmet, no gold upon stirrup or bridlebit; 
yet who now go pranked out so proudly and so 
gayly as the poor soldiers of the Temple? They 
are forbidden by our statutes to take one bird by 
means of another, to shoot beasts with bow or ar- 
plast, to halloo to a hunting-horn, or to spur the 
horse after game. But now, at hunting and hawk¬ 
ing, and each idle sport of wood and river, who so 
prompt as the Templars in all these fond vanities? 
They are forbidden to read, save what their Su¬ 
perior permitted, or listen to what is read, save such 
holy things as may be recited aloud during the 

2 I Peter, V, S. 

2 Chapter. 

3 That the Lion, the Devil, may ever be smitten. “In the 
ordinances of the Knights of the Temple this phrase is 
repeated in a variety of forms, and occurs in almost every 
chapter, as if it were the signal word of the Order; which 
may account for its being so frequently put in the Grand 
Master’s mouth.”—(Scott/s note.) 




486 


Ivan hoe 


hours of refection; but lo! their ears are at th 
command of idle minstrels, and their eyes stud 
empty romaunts. They were commanded to extii 
pate magic and heresy. Lo! they are charged wit 
studying the accursed cabalistical secrets of th 
Jews, and the magic of the Paynim Saracens. Sin 
pleness of diet was prescribed to them, roots, pot 
tage, gruels, eating flesh but thrice a-week, becaus 
the accustomed feeding on flesh is a dishonorable 
corruption of the body; and behold, their table 
groan under delicate fare! Their drink was to b 
water, and now, to drink like a Templar, is th 
boast of each jolly boon companion! This very gar 
den, filled as it is with curious herbs and trees ser 
from the Eastern climes, better becomes the hare; 
of an unbelieving Emir, than the plot which Chri: 
tian Monks should devote to raise their homel 
pot-herbs.—And 0, Conrade! well it were that tb 
relaxation of discipline stopped even here!—We 
thou knowest that we were forbidden to receiv 
those devout women, who at the beginning wei 
associated as sisters of our Order, because, sail 
the forty-sixth chapter, the Ancient Enemy hati 
by female society, withdrawn many from the rigb 
path to Paradise. Nay, in the last capital, being 
as it were, the cope-stone which our blessed foun 
er placed on the pure and undefiled doctrine whit , 
he had enjoined, we are prohibited from offering; 
even to our sisters and our mothers, the kiss h 
affection —ut omnium 1 mulierum fugiantur oscula.-- 
I shame to speak—I shame to think—of the co i 
ruptions which have rushed in upon us even like j 
flood. The souls of our pure founders, the spiri t 
of Hugh de Payen 2 and Godfrey de Saint Omer, ar 

'That the kisses of all women are-to be shunned. 

a Two of the founders of the Knights of Templars. 




IVANHOE 


487 


of the blessed seven who first joined in dedicating 
their lives to the service of the Temple, are dis¬ 
turbed even in the enjoyment of Paradise itself. 
I have seen them, Conrade, in the visions of the 
night—their sainted eyes shed tears for the sins 
and follies of their brethren, and for the foul and 
shameful luxury in which they wallow. Beauman- 
oir, they say, thou slumberest—awake! There is 
a stain in the fabric of the Temple, deep and foul 
as that left by the streaks of leprosy on the walls 
of the infected houses of old. The soldiers of the 
Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as 
the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not with the 
females of their own race only, but with the 
daughters of the accursed heathen, and more ac¬ 
cursed Jew. Beaumanoir, thou sleepest; up and 
avenge our cause! Slay the sinners, male and fe¬ 
male!—Take to thee the brand of Phineas! 1 —The 
vision fled, Conrade, but as I awaked I could still 
hear the clank of their mail, and see the waving of 
their white mantles.—And I will do according to 
their word, I will purify the fabric of the Temple! 
and the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will 
remove and cast out of the building.” 

“Yet bethink thee, reverend father,” said Mont- 
Fitchet, “the stain hath become engrained by time 
and consuetude; let thy reformation be cautious, as 
it is just and wise.” 

“No, Mont-Fitchet,” answered the stern old man 
—“it must be sharp and sudden—the Order is on 
the crisis of its fate. The sobriety, self-devotion, 
and piety of our predecessors, made us powerful 
friends—our presumption, our wealth, our luxury, 


’Numbers XXC, 6-9. 




488 


IVANHOE 


have raised up against us mighty enemies.—We 
must cast away these riches, which are a temptation 
to princes—we must lay down that presumption, 
which is an offense to them—we must reform that 
license of manners, which is a scandal to the whole 
Christian world! Or—mark my words—the Order 
of the Temple will be utterly demolished—and the 
place thereof shall no more be known among the 
nations.” 

“Now may God avert such a calamity!” said the 
Preceptor. 

“Amen,” said the Grand Master, with solemnity, 
“but we must deserve his aid. I tell thee, Conrade, 
that neither the powers in heaven, nor the powers 
on earth, will longer endure the wickedness of this 
generation. My intelligence is sure—the ground on 
which our fabric is reared is already undermined, 
and each addition we make to the structure of our 
greatness will only sink it the sooner in the abyss. 
We must retrace our steps, and show ourselves the 
faithful Champion of the Cross, sacrificing to our 
calling, not alone our blood and our lives—not alone 
our lusts and our vices—but our ease, our comforts, 
and our natural affections, and act as men convinced 
that many a pleasure which may be lawful to others, 
is forbidden to the vowed soldier of the Temple.” 

At this moment a squire, clothed in a threadbare 
vestment, (for the aspirants after this holy Order 
wore during their novitiate the cast-off garments of 
the knights), entered the garden, and, bowing pro¬ 
foundly before the Grand Master, stood silent, await¬ 
ing his permission ere he presume to tell his errand. 

“Is it not more seemly,” said the Grand Master, 
“to see this Damian, clothed in the garments of 

Question : What is the purpose of the conversation of 
these two new characters in the book? 







IVANHOE 


489 


5 Christian humility, thus appear with reverend silence 
: before his superior, than but two days since, when 
I the fond fool was decked in a painted coat, and 
| jangling as pert and as proud as any popinjay?— 
i Speak, Damian, we permit thee. What is thine 
lerrand?” r 4'd 

“A Jew stands without the gate, noble and rever¬ 
end father,” said the squire, “who prays to speak 
with brother Brian de Bois-Guilbert.” 

“Thou wert right to give me knowledge of it,” 
said the Grand Master; “in our presence a Precep- 
| tor is but as a common compeer of our Order, who 
jmay not walk according to his own will, but to that 
of his Master—even according to the text, ‘In the 
hearing 1 of the ear he hath obeyed me.’—It imports 
us especially to know of this Bois-Guilbert’s proceed- 
i ings,” said he, turning to his companion. 

“Report speaks him brave and valiant,” said 
Conrade. 

“And truly is he so spoken of,” said the Grand 
Master; “in our valor only we are not degenerated 
from our predecessors, the heroes of the Cross. But 
brother Brian came into our Order, a moody and dis¬ 
appointed man, stirred, I doubt me, to take our vows 
! and to renounce the world, not in sincerity of soul 
| but as one whom some touch of light discontent had 
! driven into penitence. Since then, he hath become 
I an active and earnest agitator, a murmurer, and a 
| machinator, and a leader amongst those who impugn 
| our authority; not considering that the rule is given 
i to the Master even by the symbol of the staff and 
! the rod—the staff to support the infirmities of the 
weak—the rod to correct the faults of delinquents 
— 

’Psalm XVIII, 44 . 






490 


Ivan hoe 


—Damian," he continued, “lead the Jew to our 
presence." 

The squire departed with a profound reverence, 
and in a few minutes returned marshaling in Isaac 
of York. No naked slave, ushered into the presence 
of some mighty prince, could approach his judgment- 
seat with more profound reverence and terror than 
that with which the Jew drew near to the presence 
of the Grand Master. When he had approached 
within the distance of three yards, Beaumanoir made 
a sign with his staff that he should come no farther. 
The Jew kneeled down on the earth, which he kissed 
in token of reverence; then rising, stood before the 
Templars, his hands folded on his bosom, his head 
bowed on his breast, in all the submission of Oriental 
slavery. 

“Damian," said the Grand Master, “retire, and 
have a guard ready to await our sudden call; and 
suffer no one to enter the garden until we shall leave 
it."—The squire bowed and retreated.—“Jew," con¬ 
tinued the haughty old man, “mark me. It suits not 
our condition to hold with thee long communication, 
nor do we waste words or time upon any one. Where¬ 
fore be brief in thy answers to what questions I shall 
ask thee, and let thy words be of truth; for if thy 
tongue doubles with me, I will have it torn from thy 
misbelieving jaws." 

The Jew was about to reply, but the Grand Master 
went on. 

“Peace, unbeliever!—not a word in our presence, 
save in answer to our questions.—What is thy 
business with our brother Brian de Bois-Guil- 
bert?" 

Isaac gasped with terror and uncertainty. To tell 
his tale might be interpreted into scandalizing the 

Order; yet, unless he told it, what hope could he 


IVANHOE 


491 


have of achieving his daughter’s deliverance? 
Beaumanoir saw his mortal apprehension, and con¬ 
descended to give him some assurance. 

“Fear nothing,” he said, “for thy wretched per¬ 
son, Jew, so thou dealest uprightly in this matter. 
I demand again to know from thee thy business with 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert?” 

“I am bearer of a letter,” stammered out the Jew, 
“so please your reverend valor, to that good knight, 
from Prior Aymer of the Abbey Jorvaulx.” 

“Said I not these were evil times, Conrade!” said 
the Master. “A Cistercian Prior sends a letter to 
a soldier of the Temple, and can find no more fitting- 
messenger than an unbelieving Jew,—Give me the 
letter.” 

The Jew, with trembling hands, undid the folds 
of his Armenian cap, in which he had deposited the 
Prior’s tablets for the greater security, and was 
about to approach, with hand extended and body 
crouched, to place it within the reach of his grim 
interrogator. 

“Back, dog!” said the Grand Master; “I touch 
not misbelievers, save with the sword.—Conrade, 
take thou the letter from the Jew, and give it to 
me.” 

Beaumanoir, being thus possessed of the tablets, 
inspected the outside carefully, and then proceeded 
to undo the pack-thread which secured its folds. 
“Reverend father,” said Conrade, interposing, though 
with much deference, “wilt thou break the seal?” 

“And will I not?” said Beaumanoir, with a 
frown. “Is it not written in the forty-second capital, 
De Lectione 1 Literarum, that a Templar shall not re¬ 
ceive a letter, no, not from his father, without com- 

’Concerning the reading of letter. 




492 


IVANHOE 


municating the same to the Grand Master, and read¬ 
ing it in his presence?” 

He then perused the letter in haste, with an ex¬ 
pression of surprise and horror; read it over again 
more slowly; then holding it out to Conrade with 
one hand, and slightly striking it with the other, ex¬ 
claimed—“Here is goodly stuff for one Christian 
man to write to another, and both members, and no 
inconsiderable members, of religious professions! 
When,” said he solemnly, and looking upward, “wilt 
thou 1 come with thy fanners to purge the thresh¬ 
ing-floor?” 

Mont-Fitchet took the letter from his Superior, 
and was about to peruse it. “Read it aloud, Con¬ 
rade,” said the Grand Master,—“and do thou” (to 
Isaac) “attend to the purport of it, for we will 
question thee concerning it.” 

Conrade read the letter, which was in these words: 
“Aymer, by divine grace, Prior of the Cistercian 
house of Saint Mary’s of Jorvaulx, to Sir Brian de 
Bois-Guilbert, a Knight of the holy Order of the 
Temple, wisheth health, with the bounties of King 
Bacchus 2 and of my Lady Venus. 3 Touching our 
present condition, dear Brother, we are a captive in 
the hands of certain lawless and godless men, who 
have not feared to detain our person, and put us to 
ransom; whereby we have also learned of Front-de- 
Bceuf’s misfortune, and that thou hast escaped with 
that fair Jewish sorceress, whose black eyes have be¬ 
witched thee. We are heartily rejoiced of thy safety; 
nevertheless, we pray thee to be on thy guard in the 
matter of the second Witch of Endor; for we are 
private ly assured that your Great Master, who careth 

"Matthew III, 12. 

2 God of wine. 

a Godrless of Love. 



IVANHOE 


493 


not a bean for cherry cheeks and black eyes, comes 
from Normandy to diminish your mirth, and amend 
your misdoings. Wherefore we pray you heartily to 
beware, and to be found watching, even as the 
holy Text hath it, Invenientur vigilantes. 1 And the 
wealthy Jew her father, Isaac of York, having 
| prayed of me letters in his behalf, I gave him these, 
j earnestly advising, and in a sort entreating, that you 
do hold the damsel to ransom, seeing he will pay you 
|i from his bags as much as may find fifty damsels upon 
safer terms, whereof I trust to have my part when 
i; we make merry together, as true brothers, not 
j forgetting the wine-cup. For what sayeth the text, 
Vinum 2 laetificat cor hominis; and again. Rex delec- 
tabitur pulchritudine tua. 3 

“Till which merry meeting, we wish you fare- 
well. Given from this den of thieves, about the hour 
) of matins. 

Aymer Pr. S. M. Jorvolciencis. 

“ Postcriptum. Truly your golden chain hath not 
! long abidden with me, and will now sustain, around 
j the neck of an outlaw deer-stealer, the whistle where¬ 
with he calleth on his hounds/’ 

“What sayest thou to this, Conrade?” said the 
Grand Master.—“Dlen of thieves! and a fit residence 
is a den of thieves for such a Prior. No wonder that 
the hand of God is upon us, and that in the Holy 
Land we lose place by place, foot by foot, before the 
infidels, when we have such churchmen as this 
Aymer,—And what meaneth he, I trow, by this sec- 


"Matthew XXV 13. 

AVine maketh glad the heart of man. Psalm CIV, 15. 

3 The king shall have pleasure in thy beauty. Psalm 
XLV. 11, 





494 


Ivan hoe 


ond Witch of Endor?” said he to his confidant, some¬ 
thing apart. 

Conrade was better acquainted (perhaps by prac¬ 
tice) with the jargon of gallantry, than was his 
Superior; and he expounded the passage which em¬ 
barrassed the Grand Master, to be a sort of language 
used by worldly men towards those whom they loved 
par amours; but the explanation did not satisfy the 
bigoted Beaumanoir. 

“There is more in it than thou dost guess, Con¬ 
rade: thy simplicity is no match for this deep abyss 
of wickedness. This Rebecca of York was a pupil of 
that Miriam of whom thou hast heard. Thou shalt 
hear the Jew own it even now.” Then turning to 
Isaac, he said aloud, “Thy daughter, then, is pris¬ 
oner with Brian de Bois-Guilbert?” 

“Ay, reverend valorous sir,” stammered poor 
Isaac, “and whatever ransom a poor man may pay 
for her deliverance-” 

“Peace!” said the Grand Master. “This thy 
daughter hath practiced the art of healing, hath she 
not?” 

“Ay f gracious sir,” answered the Jew, with more 
« confidence: “and knight and yeoman, squire and 
vassal, may bless the goodly gift which Heaven hath 
assigned to her. Many a one can testify that she hath 
recovered them by her art, when every other human 
aid hath proved vain; but the blessing of the God 
of Jacob was upon her.” 

Beaumanoir turned to Mont-Fitchet with a grim 
smile. “See, brother,” he said, “the deceptions of 
the devouring Enemy! Behold the baits with which 
he fishes for souls, giving a poor space of earthly 
life in exchange for eternal happiness hereafter. 

Question : Is the Prior’s letter going to be a help or a 
hindrance to Rebecca’s cause? 




Ivan hoe 


495 


iVell said our blessed rule, Semper percutiatur 1 
eo vorans .—Up on the lion! Down with the de¬ 
stroyer!” said he, shaking aloft his mystic abacus, 
is if in defiance of the powers of darkness. “Thy 
laughter worketh the cures, I doubt not,” thus he 
went on to address the Jew, “by words and sigils, 
md periapts, and other cabalistical mysteries.” 

“Nay, reverend and brave knight,” answered 
[saac, “but in chief measure by a balsam of marvel- 
ms virtue.” 

“Where had she that secret?” said Beaumanoir. 

“It was delivered to her,” answered Isaac, reluc¬ 
tantly, “by Miriam, a sage matron of our tribe.” 

“Ah, false Jew! was it not from that same witch 
Miriam, the abomination of whose enchantments 
nave been heard of throughout every Christian 
and?” exclaimed the Grand Master, crossing him¬ 
self. “Her body was burnt at a stake, and her 
ashes were scattered to the four winds; and so be it 
with me and mine Order, if I do not as much to her 
pupil, and more also! I will teach her to throw 
spell and incantation over the soldiers of the blessed 
Temple.—There, Damian, spurn this Jew from the 
gate—shoot him dead if he oppose or turn again. 
With his daughter we will deal as the Christian law 
and our own high office warrant.” 

Poor Isaac was hurried off accordingly, and ex¬ 
pelled from the preceptory; all of his entreaties, and 
even his offers, unheard and disregarded. He could 
do no better than return to the house of the Rabbi, 
and endeavor, through his means, to learn how his 
daughter was to be disposed of. He had hitherto 


Always the roaring lion is to be smitten. 
Question : Does Isaac, himself, help her cause? 
Question : Under what suspicion is Rebecca ? 




496 


Ivan hoe 


feared for her honor, he was now to tremble for her 
life. Meanwhile, the Grand Master ordered to his 
presence the Preceptor of Templestowe. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


Say not my art is fraud—all live by seeming. 

The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier 
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming; 

The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier 
Will eke with it his service.—All admit it, 

All practice it; and he who is content 

With showing what he is, shall have small credit 

In church, or camp, or state.—So wags the world. 

Old Play. 

Albert Malvoisin, President, or, in the language 
of the Order, Preceptor of the establishment of 
I Templestowe, was brother to that Philip Malvoisin 
who has been already occasionally mentioned in this 
history, and was, like that baron, in close league with 
; Brian de Bois-Guilbert. 

Amongst dissolute and unprincipled men, of whom 
the Temple Order included but too many, Albert of 
Templestowe might be distinguished; but with this 
difference from the audacious Bois-Guilbert, that he 
knew how to throw over his vices and his ambition 
the evil of hypocrisy, and to assume in his exterior 
the fanaticism which he internally despised. Had 
not the arrival of the Grand Master been so unex¬ 
pectedly sudden, he would have seen nothing at 
Templestowe which might have appeared to argue 
any relaxation of discipline. And, even although 
surprised, and, to a certain extent, detected, Albert 
Malvoisin listened with such respect and apparent 
contrition to the rebuke of his Superior, and made 
such haste to reform the particulars he censured,— 
succeeded, in fine, so well in giving an air of ascetic 
devotion to a family which had been lately devoted 
I to license and pleasure, that Lucas Beaumanoir began 
i to entertain a higher opinion of the Preceptor’s 




498 


Ivan hoe 


morals, than the first appearance of the establish¬ 
ment had inclined him to adopt. 

But these favorable sentiments on the part of the 
Grand Master were greatly shaken by the intelli¬ 
gence that Albert had received within a house of 
religion the Jewish captive, and, as was to be feared, 
the paramour of a brother of the Order; and when 
Albert appeared before him, he was regarded with 
unwonted sternness. 

“There is in this mansion, dedicated to the pur¬ 
poses of the holy Order of the Temple,” said the 
Grand Master, in a severe tone, “a Jewish woman, 
brought hither by a brother of religion, by your con¬ 
nivance, Sir Preceptor.” 

Albert Malvoisin was overwhelmed with confu¬ 
sion ; for the unfortunate Rebecca had been confined 
in a remote and secret part of the building, and 
every precaution used to prevent her residence there 
from being known. He read in the looks of Beau- 
manoir ruin to Bois-Guilbert and to himself, unless 
he should be able to avert the impending storm- 

“Why are you mute?” continued the Grand 
Master. 

“Is it permitted to me to reply?” answered the 
Preceptor, in a tone of the deepest humility, although 
by the question he only meant to gain an instant’s 
space for arranging his ideas. 

“Speak, you are permitted,” said the Grand Mas¬ 
ter—“speak and say, knowest thou the capital of 
our holy rule,— De commilitonibus 1 Templi in sancta 
civitate, qui cum miserrimis rnulieribus versantur, 
propter oblectationem, carnis?” 

“Surely, most reverend father,” answered the 
Precep tor, “I have not risen to this office in the 

x “The edict which he quotes is against communion with 
women of light character.” (Scott.) j 







IVANHOE 


499 


Order, being ignorant of one of its most important 
prohibitions.” 

How comes it, then, I demand of thee once more, 
that thou hast suffered a brother to bring a paramour, 
and that paramour a Jewish sorceress, into this holy 
place, to the stain and pollution thereof?” 

“A Jewish sorceress!” echoed Albert Malvoisin; 
“good angels guard us!” 

“Ay, brother, a Jewish sorceress!” said the 
Grand Master, sternly. “I have said it. Darest 
thou deny that this Rebecca, the daughter of that 
wretched usurer Isaac of York, and the pupil of the 
foul witch Miriam, is now—shame to be thought or 
spoken!—lodged within this thy Preceptory?” 

“Your wisdom, reverend father.” answered the 
Preceptor, “hath rolled away the darkness from my 
understanding. Much did I wonder that so good a 
knight as Brian de Bois-Guilbert seemed so fondly 
besotted on the charms of this female, whom I re¬ 
ceived into this house merely to place a bar betwixt 
their growing intimacy, which else might have been 
cemented at the expense of the fall of our valiant 
and religious brother.” 

“Hath nothing, then, as yet passed betwixt them 
in breach of his vow?” demanded the Grand Master. 

“What! under this roof?” said the Preceptor, 
crossing himself;—“Saint Magdalene and the ten 
thousand virgins forbid!—No! if I have sinned in 
receiving her here, it was in the erring thought that 
I might thus break off our brother’s besotted devotion 
to this Jewess, which seemed to me so wild and un¬ 
natural, that I could not but ascribe it to some touch 
of insanity, more to be cured by pity than reproof. 
But since your reverend wisdom hath discovered this 
Jewish quean to be a sorceress, perchance it may 
account fully for his enamored folly.” 




500 


IVANHOE 


“It doth!—it doth!” said Beaumanoir. “See, 
brother Conrade, the peril of yielding to the first 
devices and blandishments of Satan! We look upon 
woman only to gratify the lust of the eye, and to 
take pleasure in what men call her beauty; and the I 
Ancient Enemy, the devouring Lion, obtains power 
over us, to complete, by talisman and spell, a work 
which was begun by idleness and folly. It may be 
that our brother Bois-Guilbert does in this matter 
deserve rather pity than severe chastisement; rather 
the support of the staff, than the strokes of the rod; 
and that our admonitions and prayers may turn him j 
from his folly, and restore him to his brethren.” 

“It were deep pity,” said Conrade Mont-Fitchet, 
“to lose to the Order one of its best lances, when the j 
Holy Community most requires the aid of its sons. 
Three hundred Saracens hath this Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert slain with his own hand.” 

“The blood of these accursed dogs,” said the 
Grand Master, “shall be a sweet and acceptable offer¬ 
ing to the saints and angels whom they despise and 
blaspheme; and with their aid will we counteract the 
spells and charms with which our brother is en¬ 
twined as in a net. He shall burst the bands of this 
Delilah, as Sampson burst the two new cords with 
which the Philistines had bound him, and shall 
slaughter the infidels, even heaps upon heaps. But 
concerning this foul witch, who hath flung her en¬ 
chantments over a brother of the Holy Temple, 
assuredly she shall die the death.” 

“But the laws of England,”—said the Preceptor, 
who, though delighted that the Grand Master’s re¬ 
sentment, thus fortunately averted from himself and 
Bois-Guilbert, had taken another direction, began 
now to fear he was carrying it too far. 

“The laws of England,” interrupted Beaumanoir, 







IVANHOE 


501 


“permit and enjoin each judge to execute justice 
within his own jurisdiction. The most petty baron 
Imay arrest, try, and condemn a witch found within 
his own domain. And shall that power be denied to 
the Grand Master of the Temple within a preceptory 
cf his Order?—No!—we will judge and condemn. 
The witch shall be taken out of the land, and the 
wickedness thereof shall be forgiven. Prepare the 
Castle-hall for the trial of the sorceress/’ 

Albert Malvoisin bowed and retired,—not to give 
directions for preparing the hall, but to seek out 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and communicate to him 
how matters were likely to terminate. It was not 
f long ere he found him, foaming with indignation at 
a repulse he had anew sustained from the fair Jew- 
, ess. “The unthinking/’ he said, “the ungrateful, 

! to scorn him who, amidst blood and flames, would 
s have saved her life at the risk of his own! By Heaven, 

! Malvoisin! I abode until roof and rafters crackled 
and crashed around me. I was the butt of a hundred 
arrows; they rattled on mine armor like hailstones 
against the latticed casement, and the only use I 
made of my shield was for her protection. This did 
I endure for her; and now the self-willed girl up¬ 
braids me that I did not leave her to perish, and re¬ 
fuses me not only the slightest proof of gratitude, 
but even the most distant hope that ever she will be 
brought to grant any. The devil, thus possessed her 
race with obstinacy, has concentrated its full force in 
her single person!” 

“The devil,” said the Preceptor, “I think, pos¬ 
sessed you both. How oft have I preached to you 
caution, if not continence? Did I not tell you that 
there were enough willing Christian damsels to be 
met with, who would think it sin to refuse so brave 




502 


Ivan hoe 


a knight le don 1 d’amoureux merci, and you must 
needs anchor your affections on a willful, obstinate 
Jewess! By the mass, I think old Lucas Beaumanoir 
guesses right, when he maintains she hath cast a 
spell over you.” 

“Lucas Beaumanoir!” said Bois-Guilbert re¬ 
proachfully—“Are these your precautions, Malvoi- 
sin? Hast thou suffered the dotard to learn that 
Bebecca is in the Preceptory?” 

“How could I help it?” said the Preceptor. “I 
neglected nothing that could keep secret your mys¬ 
tery ; but it is betrayed, and whether by the devil or 
no, the devil only can tell. But I have turned the 
matter as I could; you are safe if you renounce Re¬ 
becca. You are pitied—the victim of magical de¬ 
lusion. She is a sorceress, and must suffer as such.” 

“She shall not, by Heaven!” said Bois-Guilbert. 

“By Heaven, she must and will!” said Malvoisin. 
“Neither you nor any one else can save her. Lucas 
Beaumanoir hath settled that the death of a Jewess 
will be a sin-offering sufficient to atone for all the 
amorous indulgences of the Knights Templars; and 
thou knowest he hath both .the power and will to exe¬ 
cute so reasonable and pious a purpose.” 

“Will future ages believe that such stupid bigotry 
ever existed!” said Bois-Guilbert, striding up and 
down the apartment. 

“What they may believe, I know not,” said Mal¬ 
voisin, calmly; “but I know well, that in this our 
day, clergy and laymen, take ninety-nine to the hun¬ 
dred, will cry amen to the Grand Master’s sentence.” 

“I have it,” said Bois-Guilbert. “Albert, thou art 
my friend. Thou must connive at her escape, Mal¬ 
voisin, and I will transport her to some place of 
greater security and secrecy.” 


‘The favor of her love 



IVANHOE 


503 


“I cannot, if I would,” replied the Preceptor; “the 
mansion is filled with the attendants of the Grand 
Master, and others who are devoted to him. And, 
to be frank with you, brother, I would not embark 
with you in this matter, even if I could hope to 
bring my bark to haven. I have risked enough al¬ 
ready for your sake. I have no mind to encounter 
a sentence of degradation, or even to lose my Precep- 
tory, for the sake of a painted piece of Jewish flesh 
and blood. And you, if you will be guided by my 
counsel, will give up this wild-goose chase, and fly 
your hawk at some other game. Think, Bois-Guil- 
bert,—thy present rank, thy future honors, all de-' 
pend on thy place in the Order. Shouldst thou ad¬ 
here perversely to thy passion for this Rebecca, thou 
wilst give Beaumanoir the power of expelling thee, 
and he will not neglect it. He is jealous of the 
truncheon which he holds in his trembling gripe, 
land he knows thou stretchest thy bold hand towards 
it. Doubt not he will ruin thee, if thou affordest 
him a pretext so fair as thy protection of a Jewish 
sorceress. Give him his scope in this matter, for 
thou canst not control him. When the staif is in 
thine own firm grasp, thou mayst caress the daugh¬ 
ters of Judah, or burn them, as may best suit thine 
own humor.” 

“Malvoisin,” said Bois-Guilbert, “thou are a cold¬ 
blooded-” 

“Friend,” said the Preceptor, hastening to fill 
the blank, in which Bois-Guilbert would probably have 
placed a worse word,—“a cold-blooded friend I am, 
and therefore more fit to give thee advice. I tell 
thee once more, that thou canst not save Rebecca. I 
tell thee once more, thou canst not but perish with 

Question: Does the danger that Rebecca is in arouse; 
you as much as the unjust charges against her? 





504 


I VAN HOE 


her. Go hie thee to the Grand Master—throw thy¬ 
self at his feet and tell him- 

“Not at his feet, by Heaven! but to the dotard’s 
very beard will I say-” 

“Say to him, then, to his beard,” continued Malvoi- 
sin, coolly, “that you love this captive Jewess to 
distraction; and the more thou dost enlarge on thy 
passion, the greater will be his haste to end it by the 
death of the fair enchantress;' while thou, taken in 
flagrant delict by the avowal of a crime contrary to 
thine oath, canst hope no aid of thy brethren, and 
must exchange all thy brilliant visions of ambition 
and power, to lift perhaps a mercenary spear in some 
of the petty quarrels between Flanders and Bur¬ 
gundy.” 

“Thou speakest the truth, Malvoisin,” said Brian 
de Bois-Guilbert, after a moment’s reflection. “I 
will give the hoary bigot no advantage over me; and 
for Rebecca, she hath not merited at my hand that I 
should expose rank and honor for her sake. I will 
cast her off—yes, I will leave her to her fate, unless—•’’ 

“Qualify not thy wise and necessary resolution,” 
said Malvoisin, “women are but the toys which 
amuse our lighter hours—ambition is the serious busi¬ 
ness of life. Perish a thousand such frail baubles as 
this Jewess, before thy manly step pause in the bril¬ 
liant career that lies stretched before thee! For 
the present we part, nor must we be seen to hold close 
conversation. I must order the hall for his judg¬ 
ment seat.” 

“What!” said Bois-Guilbert, “so soon?” 

“Ay,” replied the Preceptor, “trial moves rapidly 
on when the judge has determined the sentence be¬ 
forehand.” 

“Rebecca,” said Bois-Guilbert, when he was left 
alone, “thou art like to cost me dear. Why cannot I 




Ivan hoe 


505 


abandon thee to thy fate, as this calm hypocrite re¬ 
commends?—One effort will I make to save thee— 
but beware of ingratitude! for if I am again re¬ 
pulsed, my vengeance shall equal my love. The life 
and honor of Bois-Guilbert must not be hazarded, 
where contempt and reproaches are his only re¬ 


ward.” 

The Preceptor had hardly given the necessary or¬ 
ders, when he was joined by Conrade Mont-Fitchet, 
who acquainted him with the Grand Master’s resolu¬ 
tion to bring the Jewess to instant trial for sorcery. 

“It is surely a dream,” said the Preceptor; “we 
have many Jewish physicians, and we call them not 
wizards though they work wonderful cures.” 

‘The Grand Master thinks otherwise,” said Mont- 
Fitchet; “and, Albert, I will be upright with thee 
—wizard or not, it were better that this miserable 
damsel die, than that Brian de Bois-Guilbert should 
be lost to the Order, or the Order divided by internal 


dissension. Thou knowest his high rank, his fame 
in arms:—thou knowest the zeal with which many of 
our brethren regard him—but all this will not avail 
him with our Grand Master, should he consider 
Brian as the accomplice, not the victim, of this Jew¬ 
ess. Were the souls of the twelve tribes in her single 
body, it were better she suffered alone, than that Bois- 
Guilbert were partner in her destruction.” 

“I have been working him even now to abandon 
her,” said Malvoisin, “but still, are there grounds 
enough to condemn this Rebecca for sorcery?—Will 
not the Grand Master change his mind when he sees 

that the proofs are so weak?” 

“They must be strengthened, Albert, replied Mont- 
Fitchet, “they must be strengthened. Dost thou un¬ 
derstand me?” . , 

“I do,” said the Preceptor, “nor do I scruple to 



506 


IVANHOE 


do aught for advancement of the Order—but there is 
little time to find engines fitting. ,, 

Malvoisin, they must be found/’ said Conrade; 
“well will it advantage both the Order and thee. 
This Templestowe is a poor Preceptory—that of 
Maison-Dieu is worth double its value—thou know- 
est my interest with our old Chief—find those who 
can carry this matter through, and thou art Precep¬ 
tor of Maison-Dieu in the fertile Kent.—How sayest 
thou?” 

“There are,” replied Malvoisin, “among those who 
came hither with Bois-Guilbert, two fellows whom I 
well know; servants they were to my brother 
Philip de Malvoisin, and passed from his service 
to that of Front-de-Boeuf. It may be they know 
something of the witcheries of this woman.” 

“Away, seek them out instantly—and hark thee, 
if a byzant or two will sharpen their memory, let 
them not be wanting.” 

“They would swear the mother that bore them a 
sorceress for a zecchin,” said the Preceptor. 

“Away, then,” said Mont-Fitchet; “at noon the 
affair will proceed. I have not seen our senior in 
such earnest preparation since he condemned to the 
stake Hamet Alfagi, a convert who relapsed to the 
Moslem faith.” 

The ponderous castle-bell had tolled the point of 
noon, when Rebecca heard a trampling of feet 
upon the private stair which led to her place of 
confinement. The noise announced the arrival of 
several persons, and the circumstance rather gave 
her joy; for she was more afraid of the solitary 
visits of the fierce and passionate Bois-Guilbert 
than of any evil that could befall her besides. The 
door of the chamber was unlocked, and Conrade 
and the Preceptor Malvoisin entered, attended by 


IVANHOE 


507 


four warders clothed in black, and bearing hal¬ 
berds. 

“Daughter of an accursed race!” said the Precep¬ 
tor, “arise and follow us.” 

“Whither,” said Rebecca, “and for what pur¬ 
pose?” 

“Damsel,” answered Conrade, “it is not for thee 
to question, but to obey. Nevertheless, be it known 
to thee, that thou art to be brought before the tribu¬ 
nal of the Grand Master of our holy Order, there 
to answer for thine offenses.” 

“May the God of Abraham be praised!” sa,id 
Rebecca, folding her hands devoutly; “the name of 
a judge, though an enemy to my people, is to me 
as the name of a protector. Most willingly do I 
follow thee—permit me only to wrap my veil 
around my head.” 

They descended the stair with slow and solemn 
step, traversed a long gallery, and, by a pair of 
folding doors placed at the end, entered the great 
hall in which the Grand Master had for the time 
established his court of justice. 

The lower part of this ample apartment was 
filled with squires and yeomen, who made way not 
without some difficulty for Rebecca, attended by 
the Preceptor and Mont-Fitchet, and followed by 
the guard of halberdiers, to move forward to the 
seat appointed for her. As she passed through 
the crowd, her arms folded and her head depressed, 
a scrap of paper was thrust into her hand, which 
she received almost unconsciously, and continued 
to hold without examining its contents. The as¬ 
surance that she possessed some friend in this 
awful assemply gave her courage to look around, 
and to mark into whose presence she had been 



508 


IVANHOE 


conducted. She gazed, accordingly, upon the scene, 
which we shall endeavor to describe in the next 
chapter. 


Question : Of what importance is the scrap of paper 
that was given her? 



CHAPTER XXXVII 


Stern was the law which bade its vot’ries leave 
At human woes with human hearts to grieve; 

Stern was the law, which at the winning wile 
Of frank and harmless mirth forebade to smile; 

But sterner still, when high the iron-rod 

Of tyrant power she shook, and call’d that power o. Got 

The Mi(We Aye*. 


The tribunal, erected for the trial of the innocent 
and unhappy Rebecca, occupied the dais or elevated 
part of the upper end of the great hall a plat¬ 
form, which we have already described as the 
place of honor, destined to be occupied by the most 
distinguished inhabitants or guests of an ancient 


mansion. i , 

On an elevated seat, directly before the accused, 
sat the Grand Master of the Temple, in full and 
ample robes of flowing white, holding m his hand 
the mystic staff, which bore the symbol of the 
Order At his feet was placed a table, occupied by 
two scribes, chaplains of the Order, whose duty 
it was to reduce to formal record the proceedings 
of the day. The black dresses, bare scalps, and de¬ 
mure looks of these churchmen, formed a strong 
contrast to the war-like appearance of the knights 
who attended, either as residing in the Preceptory, 
or as come thither to attend upon their Grand 
Master. The Preceptors, of whom there were toui 
present, occupied seats lower in height, and 
somewhat drawn back behind that of their super¬ 
ior- and the knights, who enjoyed no such rank 
the' Order, were placed on benches still lower, 
and preserving the same distance from the Precep¬ 
tors as these from the Grand Master. Behind 
them but still upon the dais or elevated pornon 



510 


IVANHOE 


11 


of the hall, stood the esquires of the Order, ir 
white dresses of an inferior quality. 

The whole assembly wore an aspect of the most * 
profound gravity; and in the faces of the knights 
might be perceived traces of miltary daring, united ? 
with the solemn carriage becoming men of a 
religious profession, and which, in the presence of 
their Grand Master, failed not to sit upon every 
brow. 

The remaining and lower part of the hall was ! 
filled with guards, holding partisans, and with 
other attendants whom curiosity had drawn thither, 
to see at once a Grand Master and a Jewess sorce- 1 
ress. By far the greater part of those inferior per- I 
sons were, in one rank or other, connected with 
the Order, and were accordingly distinguished by 
their black dresses. But peasants from the neigh¬ 
boring country were not refused admittance; for it 
was the pride of Beaumanoir to render the edifying 
spectacle of the justice which he administered as 
public as possible. His large blue eyes seemed to 
expand as he gazed around the assembly, and his 
countenance appeared elated by the icionscious 
dignity, and imaginary merit, of the part which 
he was about to perform. A psalm, which he him¬ 
self accompanied with a deep mellow voice, which 
age had not deprived of its powers, commenced 
the proceedings of the day; and the solemn sounds. 

Venite 1 exultemus Domino, so often sung by the 
Templars before engaging with earthly adversaries, 
was judged by Lucas most appropriate to introduce 
the approaching triumph, for such he deemed it, 
over the powers of darkness. The deep prolonged 
notes, raised by a hundred masculine voices ac¬ 
customed to combine in the choral chant, arose to 


’Psalm XCV, 1. 






IVANHOE 


511 


he vaulted roof of the hall, and rolled on amongst 
ts arches with the pleasing yet solemn sound of 
he rushing of mighty waters. 

i When the sounds ceased, the Grand Master 
danced his eye slowly around the circle, and ob¬ 
served that the seat of one of the Preceptors was 
vacant. Brian de Bois-Guilbert, by whom it had 
oeen occupied, had left his place, and was now 
standing near the extreme corner of one of the 
benches occupied by the Knights Companions of 
the Temple, one hand extending his long mantle, 
—so as in some degree to hide his face; while the 
other held his cross-handled sword, with the point 
of which, sheathed as it was, he was slowly draw¬ 
ing lines upon the oaken floor. 

“Unhappy man!” said the Grand Master, after 
favoring him wth a glance of compassion. “Thou 
seest, Conrade, how this holy work distresses him. 
To this can the light look of woman, aided by.the 
Prince of the Powers of this world, bring a valiant 
and worthy knight!—Seest thou he cannot look 
upon us; he cannot look upon her; and who knows 
by what impluse from his tormentor his hand forms 
these cabalistic lines upon the floor?—It may be 
our life and safety are thus aimed at; but we spit 
at and defy the foul enemy. Semper Leo 1 percutia- 
tur!” 

This was communicated apart to his confidential 
follower, Conrade Mont-Fitchet. The Grand Master 
then raised his voice, and addressed the assembly. 

“Reverend and valiant men, Knights, Preceptors, 
and Companions of this Holy Order, my brethren 
and my children!—you also, well-born and pious 
Esquires, who aspire to wear this holy Cross! and 


’“Let the lion always be beaten down.” 




512 


IVANHOE 


you also, Christian brethren, of every degree!—1 
Be it known to you, that it is not defect of powei | 
in us which hath occasioned the assembling of this 
congregation; for, however unworthy in our per- 
son, yet to us is committed, with this batoon, full 
power to judge and to try all that regards the weal 
of this our Holy Order. Holy Saint Bernard, in the 
rule of our knightly and religious profession, hath 
said, in the fifty-ninth capital, 1 that he would not 
that brethren be called together in council, save at 
the will and command of the Master; leaving it 
free to us, as to those more worthy fathers who 
have preceded us in this our office, to judge, as 
well of the occasion as of the time and place in 
which a chapter of the whole Order, or of any 
part thereof, may be convoked. Also, in all such 
chapters, it is our duty to hear the advice of our 
brethren, and to proceed according to our own 
pleasure. But when the raging wolf hath made an 
inroad upon the flock, and carried off one member 
thereof, it is the duty of the kind shepherd to call 
his comrades together, that with bows and slings 
they may quell the invader, according to our well- 
known rule, that the lion is ever to be beaten 
down. We have therefore summoned to our pres¬ 
ence a Jewish woman, by name Rebecca, daughter 
of Isaac of York—a woman infamous for sortileges 
and for witcheries; whereby she hath maddened 
the blood, and besotted the brain, not of a churl, 
but of a Knight—not of a secular Knight, but of 
one devoted to the service of the Holy Temple— 
not of a Knight Companion, but of a Preceptor 
of our Order, first in honor as in place. Our brother, 

"‘The reader is again referred to the Rules of the Poor 
Military Brotherhood of the Temple, which occur in the 
Works of St. Bernard.” L. T. (’Scott’s note.) 





IVANHOE 


513 


Irian de Bois-Guilbert, is well known to ourselves, 
md to all degrees who now hear me, as a true 
!ind zealous champion of the Cross, by whose arm 
nany -deeds of valor have been wrought in the 
loly Land, and the holy places purified from pollu¬ 
tion by the blood of those infidels who defiled 
|;hem. Neither have our brother’s sagacity and 
>rudence been less in repute among his brethren 
;:hat his valor and discipline; in so much, that 
anights, both in eastern and western lands, have 
named De Bois-Guilbert as one who may well be 
put in nomination as successor to this batoon, when 
lit shall please Heaven to release us from the toil 
of bearing it. If we were told that such a man, 
so honored, and so honorable, suddenly casting 
iaway regard for his character, his vows, his breth¬ 
ren, and his prospects, had associated to himself a 
Jewish damsel, wandered in this lewd company, 
through solitary places, defended her person in 
'preference to his own, and finally, was so utterly 
blinded and besotted by his folly, as to bring her 
even to one of our own Preceptories, what should 
we say but that the noble knight was possessed 
by some evil demon, or influenced by some wicked 
]spell?—If we could suppose it otherwise, think not 
rank, valor, high repute, or any earthly considera¬ 
tion, should prevent us from visiting him with 
! punishment, that the evil thing might be removed, 
even according to the text, Auferte malum 1 ex 
vobis. For various and heinous are the acts of 
transgression against the rule of our blessed Or¬ 
der in this lamentable history,—1st, He hath 

iput the evil away from thee. 

Question: What is there in Scott’s early life and edu¬ 
cation that makes him especially well fitted for writing 
the trial scene of this chapter? 






514 


IVANHOE 


walked according to his proper will, contrary t 
capital 33, Quod nullus juxta propiam voluntateri 
incedat. —2d, He hath held communication with ai 
excommunicated person, capital 57, Ut fratres noi 
participent cum excommunicatis, and therefore hatl 
a portion in Anathema Maranatha. —3rd, He hatl 
conversed with strange women, contrary to th( 
capital, Ut fratres non conversantur sum extraneu 
mulieribus .—4th. He hath not avoided, nay, he 
hath, it is to be feared, solicited the kiss of woman: 
by which, saith the last rule of our renowned Order, 
Ut fugiantur oscula, the soldiers of the Cross are 
brought into a snare. For which heinous and 
multiplied guilt, Brian de Bois-Guilbert should be cut 
off and cast out from our congregation, were he the 
right hand and right eye thereof.” 

He paused. A low murmur went through the 
assembly. Some of the younger part, who had been 
inclined to smile at the statue De osculis fugien- 
dis, became now grave enough, and anxiously waited 
what the Grand Master was next to propose. 

“Such,” he said, “and so' great should indeed 
be the punishment of a Knight Templar, who will¬ 
fully offended against .the rules of his Order in 
such weighty points. But if, by means of charms 
and of spells, Satan had obtained dominion over 
the Knight, perchance because he cast his eyes 
too lightly upon a damsel’s beauty, we are then 
rather to lament than chastise his backsliding; 
and, imposing on him only such penanco as may 
purify him from his iniquity, we are to turn the 
full edge of our indignation upon the accursed 
instrument, which had so well-nigh occasioned 
his utter falling away .---Stand forth, therefore, and 
bear witness, ye who have witnessed these un-. 
happy doings, that we may judge of the sum and 




IVANHOE 


515 


bearing thereof; and judge whether our justice 
may be satisfied with the punishment of this in¬ 
fidel woman, or we must go on, with a bleeding 
heart, to the further proceeding against our 
brother.” 

Several witnesses were called upon to prove the 
| risks to which Bois-Guilbert exposed himself in 
I endeavoring to save Rebecca from the blazing 
castle, and his neglect of his personal defense in 
attending to her safety. The men gave these de¬ 
tails with the exaggerations common to vulgar 
minds which have been strongly excited by any 
remarkable event and their natural disposition to 
the marvelous was greatly increased by the satis¬ 
faction which their evidence seemed to afford to 
the eminent person for whose information it had 
been delivered. Thus the dangers which Bois- 
Guilbert surmounted, in themselves sufficiently 
great, became portentous in their narrative. The 
devotion of the Knight to Rebecca’s defense was 
exaggerated beyond the bounds not only of dis¬ 
cretion, but even of the most frantic excess of 
chivalrous zeal; and his deference to what she 
said, even although her language was often severe 
and upbraiding, was painted as carried to an 
excess, which, in a man of his haughty temper, 
seemed almost preternatural. 

The Preceptor of Templestowe was then called 
on to describe the manner in which Bois-Guilbert 
and the Jewess arrived at the Preceptory. The 
evidence of Malvoisin was skillfully guarded. But 
while he apparently studied to spare the feelings 
of Bois-Guilbert, he threw in, from time to time, 
such hints, as seemed to infer that he labored 
under some temporary alienation of mind, so deep¬ 
ly did he appear to be enamored df the damsel 







616 


IVANHOE 


whom he brought along with him. With sighs oil 
penitence, the Preceptor avowed his own contri¬ 
tion for having admitted Rebecca and her lovei 
within the walls of the Preceptory.—“But my de¬ 
fense/’ he concluded, “has been made in my con¬ 
fession to our most reverend father the Grand 
Master; he knows my motives were not evil, though 
my conduct may have been irregular. Joyfully 
will I submit to any penance he shall assign me.” 

“Thou hast spoken well, Brother Albert,” said 
Beaumanoir; “thy motives were good, since thou 
didst judge it right to arrest thine erring brother 
in his career of precipitate folly. But thy con¬ 
duct was wrong; as he that would stop a runaway 
steed, and seizing by the stirrup instead of the 
bridle, receiveth injury himself, instead of accom¬ 
plishing his purpose. Thirteen paternosters are 
assigned by our pious founder for matins, and 
nine for vespers; be those services doubled by 
thee, Thrice a week are Templars permitted the 
use of flesh; but do thou keep fast for all the 
seven days. This do for six weeks to come, and 
thy penance is accomplished.” 

With a hypocritical look of the deepest submission, 
the Preceptor of Templestowe bowed to the ground 
before his Superior, and resumed his seat. 

“Were it not well, brethren,” said the Grand 
Master, “that we examine something into the former 
life and conversation of this woman, specially that 
we may discover whether she be one likely to use 
magical charms and spells, since the truths which 
we have heard may well incline us to suppose, that 
in. this unhappy course our erring brother has been 
acted upon by some infernal enticement and delu¬ 
sion?” 

Herman of Goodalricke was the Fourth Preceptor 



Ivan hoe 


517 


present; the other three were Conrade, Malvoisin, 
and Bois-Guilbert himself. Herman was an ancient 
warrior, whose face was marked with scars inflicted 
!by the saber of the Moslemah, and had great rank 
and consideration among his brethren. He arose 
and bowed to the Grand Master, who instantly 
granted him license of speech. “I would crave to 
know, most Reverend Father, of our valiant brother, 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, what he says to these won¬ 
drous accusations, and with what eye he himself now 
regards his unhappy intercourse with this Jewish 
maiden?” 

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert,” said the Grand Master, 
“thou hearest the question which our Brother of 
Goodalricke desirest thou shouldst answer. I com¬ 
mand thee to reply to him.” 

Bois-Guilbert turned his head towards the Grand 
Master when thus addressed, and remained silent. 

“He is possessed by a dumb devil,” said the 
Grand Master. “Avoid thee, Sathanas!—Speak, 

! Brian de Bois-Guilbert, I conjure thee, by this 
symbol of our Holy Order.” 

Bois-Guilbert made an effort to suppress his rising 
scorn and indignation, the expression of which, he 
was well aware, would have little availed him. 
“Brian de Bois-Guilbert,” he answered, “replies 
not, most Reverend Father, to such wild and vague 
charges. If his honor be impeached, he will defend 
it with his body, and with that sword which has often 
fought for Christendom.” 

“We forgive thee, Brother Brian,” said the Grand 
Master, “though that thou hast boasted thy warlike 
achievements before us, is a glorifying of thine own 
deeds, and cometh of the Enemy, thou tempteth us 
to exalt our own worship. But thou hast our pardon, 
judging thou speakest less of thine own suggestion 




518 


Ivan hoe 


than from the impulse of him whom, by Heaven’s 
leave, we will quell and drive forth from our assem¬ 
bly.” A glance of disdain flashed from the dark 
fierce eyes of Bois-Guilbert, but he made no reply.— 
“And now,” pursued the Grand Master, “since our 
Brother of Goodalricke’s question has been thus im¬ 
perfectly answered, pursue we our quest, brethren, 
and with our patron’s assistance, we will search to 
the bottom of this mystery of iniquity.—Let those 
who have aught to witness of the life and conversa¬ 
tion of this Jewish woman, stand forth before us.” 
There was a bustle in the lower part of the hall, and 
when the Grand Master inquired the reason, it was 
replied there was in the crowd a bedridden man, 
whom the prisoner had restored to the perfect use 
of his limbs, by a miraculous balsam. 

The poor peasant, a Saxon by birth, was dragged 
forward to the bar, terrified at the penal conse- 
otiences. which he might have incurred by the guilt 
of having been cured of the palsy by a Jewish dam¬ 
sel. Perfectly cured he certainly was not, for he 
supported himself forward on crutches to give evi¬ 
dence. Most unwilling was his testimony, and given 
with many tears; but he admitted that two years 
since, when residing at York, he was suddenly afflic¬ 
ted with a sore disease, while laboring for Isaac the 
rich Jew in his vocation of a joiner; that he had been 
unable to stir from his bed until the remedies ap¬ 
plied by Rebecca’s directions, and especially a warm¬ 
ing and spicy-smelling balsam, had in some degree 
restored him to the use of his limbs. Moreover, he 
said, she had given him a pot of that precious oint¬ 
ment, and furnished him with a piece of money 
withal:, to return to the house of his father, near 
to Templestowe. “And may it please your gracious 
Reverence,” said the man, “I cannot think the dam- 


IVANHOE 


519 


el meant harm by me, though she hath the il hap 
o be a Jewess; for even when I used her remedy, I 
laid the Pater and the Creed, and it never operated 
i whit less kindly.” 

“Peace, slave,” said the Grand Master, “and be¬ 


gone I 


It well suits brutes like thee to be tamper¬ 


ing and trinketing with hellish cures, and to be giv- 
ng your labor to the sons of mischief. I tell thee, 
he fiend can impose diseases for the very purpose of 
removing them, in order to bring into credit some 
iiabolical fashion of cure. Hast thou that unguent 
of which thou speakest?” 

. The peasant* fumbling in his bosom with a tremb¬ 
ling hand, produced a small box, bearing some 
Hebrew characters on the lid, which was, with most 
of the audience, a sure proof that the devil had stood 
apothecary. Beaumanoir, after crossing himself,, 
took the box into his hand, and, learned m most of 
the Eastern tongues, read with ease the motto on the- 
lid —The Lion of the Tribe of Judah hath con¬ 
quered. “Strange powers of Sathanas,” said . he, 
which can convert Scripture into blasphemy, ming¬ 
ling poison with our necessary food!—Is there-no 
leech here who can tell us the ingredients of this 

mystic unguent?” .. 

Two mediciners, as they called themselves, the one 
a monk, the other a barber, appeared, and avouched 
they knew -nothing of the materials, excepting that 
they savored of myrrh and camphire, which they 
took to be Oriental herbs. But with the true profes¬ 
sional hatred to a successful practitioner of then 
art, they insinuated that, since the medicine was 
yond their knowledge, it must necessarily have 
been compounded from an unlawful and magica. 
pharmacopoeia ; since they themseives though no 
conjurers, fully understood every branch of their art. 



520 


IVANHOE 


so far as it might be exercised with the good faith 
of a Christian. When this medical research was 
ended, the Saxon peasant desired humbly to have 
back the medicine which he had found so salutary; 
but the Grand Master frowned severely at the re¬ 
quest. “What is thy name, fellow?” said he to the 
cripple. 

“Higg, the son of Snell,” said the peasant. 

“Then Higg, son of Snell,” said the Grand Mas¬ 
ter, “I tell thee it is better to be bedridden, than 
to accept the benefit of unbelievers’ medicine that 
thou mayest arise and walk; better to despoil infidels 
of their treasure by the strong hand, than to accept 
of them benevolent gifts, or do them service tor 
wages. Go thou, and do as I have said.” 

“Alack,” said the peasant, “an it shall not dis¬ 
please your Reverence, the lesson comes too late for 
me, for I am but a maimed man; but I will tell my 
two brethren, who serve the rich, Rabbi Nathan Ben 
Samuel, that your mastership says it is more lawful 
to rob him than to render him faithful service.” 

“Out with the prating villain!” said Beaumanoir, 
who was not prepared to refute this practical appli¬ 
cation of his general maxim. 

Higg, the son of Snell, withdrew into the crowd, 
but, interested in the fate of his benefactress, lin¬ 
gered until he should learn her doom, even at the 
risk of again encountering the frown of that severe 
judge, the terror of which withered his very heart 
within him. 

At this period of the trial, the Grand Master com¬ 
manded Rebecca to unveil herself. Opening her lips 
for the first time, she replied patiently, but with 
dignity,—“That it was not the wont of the daughters 
of her people to uncover their faces when alone in an 
assembly of strangers.” The sweet tones of her 


IVANHOE 


521 


Voice, and the softness of her reply, impressed on the 
jaudience a sentiment of pity and sympathy. But 
Beaumanoir, in whose mind the suppression of each 
feeling of humanity which could interfere with his 
{imagined duty, was a virtue of itself, repeated his 
commands that his victim should be unveiled. 

The guards were about to remove her veil accord¬ 
ingly, when she stood up before the Grand Master, 
and said, ‘'Nay, but for the love of your own 
daughters—Alas,” she said, recollecting herself, “ye 
have no daughter!—yet for the remembrance of 
your mothers—for the love of your sisters, and of 
Ifemale decency, let me not be thus handled in your 
presence; it suits not a maiden to be disrobed by 
such rude grooms. I will obey you,” she added, with 
an expression of patient sorrow in her voice, which 
had almost melted the heart of Beaumanoir himself; 
“ye are elders among your people, and at your 
command I will show the features of an ill-fated 
maiden.” 

She withdrew her veil, and looked on them with 
a countenance in which bashfulness contended with 
dignity. Her exceeding beauty excited a murmur 
of surprise, and the younger knights told each other 
with their eyes, in silent correspondence, that Brian’s 
best apology was in the power of her real charms, 
rather than of her imaginary witchcraft. But Higg, 
the son of Snell, felt most deeply the effect produced 
by the sight of the countenance of his benefactress. 

“Let me go forth,” he said to the warders at the 
door of the hall—“let me go forth!—To look at her 
again will kill me, for I have had a share in murder¬ 
ing her.” . . ■ 

“Peace, poor man,” said Rebecca, when she heard 
his exclamation; “thou hast done me no harm by 
speaking the truth—thou canst not aid me by thy 






522 


IVANHOE 


complaints or lamentations. Peace, I pray thee— 
go home and save thyself.” 

Higg was about to be thrust out by the compassion 
of the warders, who were apprehensive lest his clam-: 
orous grief should draw upon them reprehension, 
and upon himself punishment. But he promised to 
be silent, and was permitted to remain. The two 
men-at-arms, with whom Albert Malvoisin had not 
failed to communicate upon the import of their 
testimony, were now called forward. Though both 
were hardened and inflexible villains, the sight of the 
captive maiden, as well as her excelling beauty,, at 
first appeared to stagger them; but an expressive 
glance from the Preceptor of Templestowe restored 
them to their dogged composure; and they delivered, 
with a precision which would haveiseemed suspicious 
to more impartial judges, circumstances either al¬ 
together fictitious, or trivial and natural in them¬ 
selves, but rendered pregnant with suspicion by 
the exaggerated manner in which they wefe told, 
and the sinister commentary which the witnesses 
added to the facts. The circumstances of their evi¬ 
dence would have been, in modern days, divided into 
two classes—those which were immaterial, and those 
which were actually and physically impossible. But 
both were, in those ignorant and superstitious times, 
easily credited as proofs of guilt.—The first class set: 
forth, that Rebecca was heard to mutter to herself in 
an unknown tongue—that the songs she sung by fits 
were of a strangely sweet sound, which made the ears 
of the hearer tingle, and his heart throb—that she 
spoke at times to herself, and seemed to look upward 
for a reply—that her garments were of a strange and 
mystic form, unlike those of women of good repute— 
that she had rings impressed with cabalistical de- 


IVANHOE 


523 


vices, and that strange characters were broidered 
3n her veil. 

All these circumstances, so natural and so trivial, 
were gravely listened to as proofs, or, at least, as 
affording strong suspicions that Rebecca had unlaw¬ 
ful correspondence with mystical powers. 

But there was less equivocal testimony, which the 
credulity of the assembly, or of the greater part, 
greedily swallowed, however incredible. One of the 
soldiers had seen her work a cure upon a wounded 
nan, brought with them to the castle of Torquilstone. 
She did, he said, make certain signs upon the wound, 
and repeated certain mysterious words, which he 
blessed God he understood not, when the iron head 
af a square crossbow bolt disengaged itself from the 
wound, the bleeding was stanched, the wound was 
closed, and the dying man was, within a quarter of 
ian hour, walking upon the ramparts, and assisting 
|lhe witness in managing a mangonel, or machine for 
hurling stones. This legend was probably founded 
upon the fact, that Rebecca had attended on the 
wounded Ivanhoe when in the castle of Torquilstone. 
But it was the more difficult to dispute the accuracy 
of the witness, as, in order to produce real evidence 
in support of his verbal testimony, he drew from his 
pouch the very bolt-head, which, according to his 
story, had been miraculously extracted from the 
wound; and as the iron weighed a full ounce, it 
completely confirmed the tale, however marvelous. 

His comrade had been a witness from a neighboring 
battlement of the scene betwixt Rebecca and Bois- 
Guilbert, when she was upon the point of precipitat¬ 
ing herself from the top of the tower. Not to be 
behind his companion, this fellow stated, that he had 
seen Rebecca perch herself upon the parapet of the 
turret, and there take the form of a milk-white swan, 




524 


IVANHOE 


under which appearance she flitted three times round 
the castle of. Torquilstone; then again settle on the 
turret* and once more assume the female form. 

Less than one-half of this weighty evidence would 
have been sufficient to convict any old woman, poor 
and ugly, even though she had not been a Jewess. 
United with that fatal circumstance, the body of 
proof was too weighty for Rebecca’s youth, though 
combined with the most exquisite beauty. 

The Grand Master had collected the suffrages, and 
now in a solemn tone demanded of Rebecca what she 
had to say against the sentence of condemnation, 
which he was about to pronounce. 

“To invoke your pity,” said the lovely Jewess," 
with a voice somewhat tremulous with emotion, 
“would I am aware, be as useless as I should hold 
it mean. To state that to relieve the sick and 
wounded of another religion, cannot be displeasing 
to the acknowledged Founder of both our faiths, 
were also unavailing; to plead that many things 
which these men (whom may Heaven pardon!) have 
spoken against me are impossible, would avail me but 
little, since you believe in their possiblity; and still 
less would it advantage me to explain, that the pe¬ 
culiarities of my dress, language, and manners, are 
these of my people—I had well-nigh said of my 
country, but alas! we have no country. Nor will I 
even vindicate myself at the expense of mv oppres¬ 
sor, who stands there listening to the fictions and 
surmises which seem to convert the tyrant into the 
victim.—God be judge between him and me! but 
rather would I submit to ten such deaths as your 
pleasure may denounce against me, than listen to the 
suit which that man of Belial has urged upon me—| 
friendless, defenseless, and his prisoner. But he is 
of your own faith, and his lighest affirmation would 


IVANHOE 


525 


Jveigh down the most solemn protestations of the dis¬ 
tressed Jewess. I will not therefore return to himself 
the charge brought against me—but to himself— 
Yes, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, to thyself I appeal, 
whether these accusations are not false? as mons¬ 
trous and calumnious as they are deadly?” 

There was a pause; all eyes turned to Brian de 
Bois-Guilbert. He was silent. 

Speak, she said, “if thou art a man—if thou 
art a Christian, speak!—I conjure thee, by the habit 
which thou dost wear, by the name thou dost inherit 
—by the knighthood thou dost vaunt—by the honor 
of thy mother—by the tomb and the bones of thy 
father—T conjure thee to say, are these things true?” 

: “Answer her, brother,” said the Grand Master, 

‘Enemy with whom thou dost wrestle will 
give thee power.” 

In fact, Bois-Guilbert seemed agitated by contend¬ 
ing passions, which almost convulsed his features, 
and it was with a constrained voice that, at last he 
replied, looking to Rebecca,—“The scroll!—the 
scroll!” 

“Ay,” said Beaumanoir, “this is indeed testi¬ 
mony ! The victim of her witcheries can only name 
the fatal scroll, the spell inscribed on which is, doubt¬ 
less, the cause of his silence.” 

But Rebecca put another interpretation on the 
words extorted as it were from Bois-Guilbert, and 
glancing her eye upon the slip of parchment which 
she continued to hold in her hand, she read written 
thereupon in the Arabian character, Demand a Cham¬ 
pion! The murmuring commentary which ran 
through the assembly at the strange reply of Bois- 
Guilbert, gave Rebecca leisure to examine and 
instantly to destroy- the scroll unobserved. When 
the whisper had ceased, the Grand Master spoke. 


9 



526 


IVANHOE 


“Rebecca, thou canst derive no benefit from the 
evidence of this unhappy knight, for whom, as we 
well perceive, the Enemy is yet too powerful. Hast 
thou aught else to say?” 

“There is yet one chance of life left to me,” said 
Rebecca, “even by your own fierce laws. Life has 
been miserable—miserable, at least, of late—but I 
will not cast away the gift of God, while he affords 
me the means of defending it. I deny this charge 
I maintain my innocence, and I declare the falsehood 
by this accusation.—I challenge the privilege of trial 
by combat, and will appear by my champion.” 

“And who, Rebecca,” replied the Grand Master, 
“will lay lance in rest for a sorceress? Who will be 
the champion of a Jewess?” 

“God will raise me up a champion,” said Rebecca. 
“It cannot be that in merry England—the hospitable 
the generous, the free, where so many are ready tc 
peril their lives for honor, there will not be found 
one to fight for justice. But it is enough that I chal¬ 
lenge the trial by combat—there lies my gage.” 

She took her embroidered glove from her hand 
and flung it down before the Grand Master with ar 
air of mingled simplicity and dignity, which excited 
universal surprise and admiration. 


Question: Do you ^consider that Rebecca has mucl 
chance for being rescued? 



CHAPTER XXXVIII 

-There I throw my gage, 

To prove it on thee to the extremes! point 
Of martial daring 

Richard II. 

! Even Lucas Beaumanoir himself was affected by 
the mien and appearance of Rebecca. He was not 
I originally a cruel or even a severe man; but with 
passions by nature cold, and with a high, though 
mistaken, sense of duty, his heart had been gradually 
j hardened by the ascetic life which he pursued, the 
supreme power which he enjoyed, and the supposed 
necessity of subduing infidelity and eradicating 
heresy, which he conceived peculiarly incumbent 
on him. His features relaxed in their usual severity 
j as he gazed upon the beautiful creature before him, 
'alone, unfriended, and defending herself with so 
I much spirit and courage. He crossed himself twice, 
as doubting whence arose the unwonted softening of 
a heart, which, on such occasions used to resemble in 
hardness the steel of his sword. At length he spoke. 

“Damsel,” he said, “if the pity I feel for thee 
arise from any practice thine evil arts have made on 
me, great is thy guilt. But I rather judge it the 
kinder feelings of nature, which grieves that so 
goodly a form should be a vessel of perdition. Re¬ 
pent, my daughter;—confess thy witchcraft—turn 
thee from thine evil faith—embrace this holy em¬ 
blem, and all shall yet be well with thee here and 
hereafter. In some sisterhood of the strictest order, 
shalt thou have time for prayer and fitting penance, 
and that repentance not to be repented of. This do 
and live—what has the law of Moses done fpr thee 
that thou shouldest die for it?” 

“It was the law of my fathers,” said Rebecca; 








528 


IVANHOE 


“it was delivered in thunders 1 and in storms upon the 
mountain of Sinai in cloud and in fire. This, if ye 
are Christians, ye believe—it is, you say, recalled; 
but so my teachers have not taught me.” 

“Let our chaplain,” said Beaumanoir, “stand 
forth, and tell this obstinate infidel-” 

“Forgive the interruption,” said Rebecca, meekly; 
“I am a maiden, unskilled to dispute for my re¬ 
ligion, but I can die for it, if it be God”s will.—Let 
me pray your answer to my demand of the cham¬ 
pion.” 

“Give me her glove,” said Beaumanoir. “This is 
indeed,” he continued, as he looked at the flimsy 
texture and slender fingers, “a slight and frail gage 
for a purpose so deadly!—Seest thou, Rebecca, as 
this thin and light glove of thine is to one of our 
heavy steel gauntlets, so is thy cause, to that of the 
Temple, for it is our Order which thou hast defied.” 

“Cast my innocence into the scale,” answered Re¬ 
becca, “and the glove of silk shall outweigh the 
glove of iron.” 

“Then thou dost persist in thy refusal to confess 
thy guilt, and in that bold challenge which thou hast 
made?” 

“I do persist, noble sir,” answered Rebecca. 

“So be it then, in the name of Heaven,” said the 
Grand Master; “and may God show the right!” 

“Amen,” replied the Preceptors around him, and 
the word was deeply echoed by the whole assembly. 

“Brethren,” said Beaumanoir, “you are aware 
that we might well have refused to this woman the 
benefit of the trial by combat—but though a Jewess 
and an unbeliever, she is also a stranger and de¬ 
fenseless, and God forbid that she should ask the 
benefit of our mild laws, and that it should be refused 


‘Exodus XIX. 16; XX, 18, 




IVANHOE 


529 


to her. Moreover, we are knights and soldiers, as 
well as men of religion, and shame it were to us upon 
any pretense, to refuse proffered combat. Thus, 
therefore, stands the case. Rebecca, the daughter 
of Isaac of York, is, by many frequent and sus¬ 
picious circumstances defamed of sorcery practiced 
on the person of a noble knight of our holy Order, 
and hath challenged the combat in proof of her inno¬ 
cence. To whom, reverend brethren, is it yjOur 
opinion that we should deliver the gage of battle, 
naming him, at the same time, to be our champion on 
the field?” 

“To Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whom it chiefly con¬ 
cerns,” said the Preceptor of Goodalricke, “and who, 
moreover, best knows how the truth stands in this 
matter.” 

“But if,” said the Grand Master, “our brother 
Brian be under the influence of a charm or a spell— 
we speak but for the sake of precaution, for to the 
arm of none of our holy Order would we more will¬ 
ingly confide this or a more weighty cause.” 

“Reverend father,” answered the Preceptor of 
"Joodalricke, “no spell can affect the champion who 
v omes forward to fight for the judgment of God.” 

“Thou sayest right, brother,” said the Grand 
blaster. “Albert Malvoisin. give this gage of battle 
o Brian de Bois-Guilbert.—It is our charge to thee, 
mother,” he continued, addressing himself to Bois- 
luilbert, “that thou do thy battle manfully, nothing 
loubting that the good cause shall triumph.—And do 
hou, Rebecca, attend, that we assign thee the third 
[ay from the present to find a champion.” 

“That is but a brief space.” answered Rebecca, “for 

stranger, who is also of another faith, to find one 
/ho will do battle, wagering life and honor for her 




530 JyANHOE 

cause, against a knight who is called an approved 
soldier.” 

“We may not extend it,” answered the Grand 
Master; “the field must be foughten in our own 
oresence, and divers weighty causes call us on the 
fourth day from hence.” 

“God’s will be done!” said Rebecca; “I put my 
trust in Him, to whom an instant is an effectual to 
save as a whole age.” 

“Thou hast spoken well, damsel,” said the Grand 
Master; “but well know we who can array himself 
like an angel of light. 1 It remains but to name a 
fitting place to combat, and, if it so hap, also of exe¬ 
cution.—Where is the Preceptor of this house?” 

Albert Malvoisin, still holding Rebecca’s glove in 
his hand, was speaking to Bois-Guilbert very earn¬ 
estly, but in a low voice. 

“How!” said the Grand Master, “will he not re¬ 
ceive the gage?” 

“He will—he doth, most Reverend Father,” saic 
Malvoisin, slipping the glove under his own mantle 
“And for the place of combat, I hold the fittest tc 
be the lists of Saint George belonging to this Pre 
ceptory. and used by us for military exercise.” 

“It is well,” said the Grand Master.—“Rebecca 
in those lists shalt thou produce thy champion; an< 
if thou failest to do so. or if thy champion shall b< 
discomfited by the judgment of God, thou shalt thei 
die the death of a sorceress, according to doom.—Le 
this our judgment be recorded, and the record reai 
aloud, that no one may pretend ignorance.” 

One of the chaplains, who acted as clerks to th 
chapter, immediately engrossed the order in a hug 
volume, which contained the proceedings of th- 


l XI Corinthians VI, 14, 






IVANHOE 


531 


Templar Knights when solemnly assembled on such 
occasions; and when he had finished writing, the 
other read aloud the sentence of the Grand Master, 
which, when translated from the Norman-French in 
which it was couched, was expressed as follows: — 

“Rebecca, a Jewess, daughter of Isaac of York, 
being attainted of sorcery, seduction, and other dam¬ 
nable practices, practiced on a Knight of the most 
Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, doth deny the 
same; and saith, that the testimony delivered against 
her this day is false, wicked, and disloyal; and that 
by lawful essoine 1 of her body as being unable to 
combat in her own behalf, she doth offer, by a cham¬ 
pion instead thereof, to avouch her case, he perform¬ 
ing his loyal devoir in all knightly sort, with such 
arms as to gage of battle do fully appertain, and that 
at her peril and cost. And therewith she proffered 
her gage. And the gage having been delivered to the 
noble Lord and Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, of 
the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, he was ap¬ 
pointed to do this battle, in behalf of his Order and 
Shimself, as injured and impaired by the practices of 
the appellant. Wherefore the most reverend Father 
and puissant Lord, Lucas Marquis of Beaumanoir, 
did allow of the said challenge, and of the said essoine 
of the appellant’s body, and assigned the third day 
for the said combat, the place being the inclosure 
called the lists of Saint George, near to the Precep- 
tory of Templestowe. And the Grand Master appoints 
the appellant to appear there by her champion, on 
pain of doom, as a person convicted of sorcery or 
seduction; and also the defendant so to appear, under 
the penalty of being held and adjudged recreant in 

^‘Essoine signifies excuse, and here relates to the ap¬ 
pellant’s privilege of appearing by her champion, in excuse 
or her own person on account of her sex.” (Scott.) 






532 


IVANHOE 


case of default; and the noble Lord and most rever¬ 
end Father aforesaid appointed the battle to be done 
in his own presence, and according to all that is com¬ 
mendable and profitable in such a case. And may 
God aid the just cause!” 

“Amen!” said the Grand Master; and the word 
was echoed by all around. Rebecca spoke not, but 
she looked up to heaven, and, folding her hands, re¬ 
mained for a minute without change of attitude. 
She then modestly reminded the Grand Master that 
she ought to be permitted some opportunity of free 
communication with her friends, for the purpose of 
making her condition known to them, and procuring, 
if possible, some champion to fight in her behalf. 

“It is just and lawful,” said the Grand Master; 
“choose what messenger thou shalt trust, and he 
shall have free communication with thee in thy 
prison-chamber.” 

“Is there,” said Rebecca, “any one here \who, 
either for love of a good cause, or for ample hire, will 
do the errand of a distressed being?” 

All were silent: for none thought it safe, in the 
presence of the Grand Master, to avow any interest 
in the calumniated prisoner, lest he should be sus¬ 
pected of leaning towards Judaism. Not even the 
prospect of reward, far less any feeings of compas¬ 
sion alone, could surmount this apprehension. 

Rebecca stood for a few moments in indescribable 
anxiety, and then exclaimed, “Is it really thus?— 
and, in English land, am I to be deprived of the poor 
chance of safety which remains to me, for want of 
an act of charity which would not be refused to the 
worst criminal?” 

Higg. the son of Snell, at length replied, “I am 
but a maimed man, but that I can at all stir or move 
was owing to her charitable assistance.—I will do 




IVANHOE 


533 


thine errand/’ he added, addressing Rebecca, “as 
well as a crippled object can, and happy were my 
limbs fleet enough to repair the mischief done by my 
tongue. Alas! when I boasted of thy charity, I little 
thought I was leading thee into danger!” 

“God,” said Rebecca, “is the disposer of all. 
He can turn back the captivity of Judah, even by the 
weakest instrument. To execute his message the 
snail is as sure a messenger as the falcon. Seek out 
Isaac of York—here is that will pay for horse and 
man—let him have this scroll.—I know not if it be 
of Heaven the spirit which inspires me, but most 
truly do I judge that I am not to die this death, and 
that a champion will be raised up for me. Farewell! 
—Life and death are in thy haste.” 

The peasant took the scroll, which contained only 
[ a few lines in Hebrew. Many of the crowd would 
have dissuaded him from touching a document so 
suspicious; but Higg was resolute in the service of 
his benefactress. She had saved his body, he said, 
and he was confident she did not mean to peril his 
soul. 

“I will get me,” he said, “my neighbor Buthan’s 
good capul, and I will be at York within as brief 
space as man and beast may.” 

But as it fortuned, he had no occasion to go so 
far, for within a quarter of a mile from the gate of 
the Preceptory he met with two riders, whom, by 
their dress and their huge yellow caps, he knew 
to be Jews; and, on approaching more nearly, dis¬ 
covered that one of them was his ancient employer, 
Isaac of York. The other was the Rabbi Ben 
Samuel; and both had approached as near to the 
Preceptory as they dared, on hearing that the Grand 
Master had summoned a chapter for the trial of a 
sorceress. 








634 IVANHOE 

“Brother Ben Samuel,” said Isaac, “my soul is 
disquieted. And I wot not why. This charge of 
necromancy is right often used for cloaking evil 
practices on our people.” 

“Be of good comfort, brother,” said the physician; 
“thou canst deal with the Nazarenes as one possess¬ 
ing the mammon of unrighteousness, and canst there¬ 
fore purchase immunity at their hands—it rules the 
savage minds of those ungodly men, even as the sig¬ 
net of the mighty Solomon was said to command the 
evil genii.—But what poor wretch comes hither 
upon his cruthches, desiring, as I think, some speech 
of me?—Friend,” continued the physician, address¬ 
ing Higg, the son of Snell, “I refuse thee not the aid 
of mine art, but I relieve not with one asper those 
who beg for alms upon the highway. Out upon thee! 
—Hast thou the palsy in thy legs? then let thy hands 
work for thy livelihood; for, albeit thou be’st unfit 
for speedy post, or for a careful shepherd, or for 
the warfare, or for the service of a hasty master, yet 
there be occupations—How now, brother?” said he, 
interrupting his harangue to look towards Isaac, 
who had but glanced at the scroll which Higg of¬ 
fered, when uttering a deep groan, he fell from his 
mule like a dying man, and lay for a minute insen¬ 
sible. 

The Rabbi now dismounted in great alarm, and 
hastily applied the remedies which his art suggested 
for the recovery of his companion. He had even 
taken from his pocket a cupping apparatus, and was 
about to proceed to phlebotomy, when the object of 
his anxious solicitude suddenly revived; but it was 
to dash his cap from his head, and to throw dust on 
his gray hairs. The physician was at first inclined 
to ascribq this sudden and violent emotion to the 
effects of insanity; and, adhering to his original pur- 





IVANHOE 


535 


pose, began once again to handle his implements. 
But Isaac soon convinced him of his error. 

“Child of my sorrow/’ he said, “well shouldst 
thou be called Benoni, instead of Rebecca! Why 
should thy death bring down my gray hairs to the 
grave, till, in the bitterness of my heart, I curse God 
and die!” 

“Brother,” said the Rabbi, in great surprise, “art 
thou a father in Israel, and dost thou utter words 
like unto these?—I trust that the child of thy house 
yet liveth?” 

“She liveth,” answered Isaac; “but it is as Dan¬ 
iel, who was called Belteshazzar, even when within 
the den of the lions. She is captive unto those 
men of Belial, and they will wreak their cruelty upon 
her, sparing neither for her youth nor her comely 
favor. 0! she was as a crown of green palms to 
my gray locks; and she must wither in a night, like 
the gourd of Jonah! 1 —Child of my love!—child of 
my old age!—Oh, Rebecca, daughter of Rachel! 
the darkness of the shadow of death hath encom¬ 
passed thee.” 

“Yet read the scroll,” said the Rabbi; “peradven- 
i ture it may be that we may yet find out a way of 
deliverance.” 

“Do thou read, brother,” answered Isaac, “for 
mine eyes are as a fountain of water/’ 

The physician read, but in their native language, 
the following words:— 

“To Isaac, the son of Adonikam, whom the Gen¬ 
tiles call Isaac of York, peace, and the blessing of 
the promise be multiplied unto thee!—My father, 
I am as one doomed to die for that which my 1 soul 
•knoweth not—even for the crime of witchcraft. My 

Jonah’s gourd grew in a night and perished in a night. 
Jonah IV, 5-11. 




536 


IVANHOE 


father, if a strong man can be found to do battle for 
my cause with sword and spear, according to the cus¬ 
tom of the Nazarenes, and that within the lists of 
Templestowe, on the third day from this time, per- 
adventure our fathers’ God will give him strength to 
defend the innocent, and her who hath none to help 
her. But if this may not be, let the virgins of our 
people mourn for me as for one cast off, and for the 
hart that is stricken by the hunter, and for the flower 
which is cut down by the scythe of the mower. 
Wherefore look now what thou doest, and whether 
there be any rescue. One Nazarene warrior might 
indeed bear arms in my behalf, even Wilfred, son of 
Cedric, whom the Gentiles call Ivanhoe. But he may 
not yet endure the weight of his armor. Neverthe¬ 
less, send the tidings unto him, my father; for he 
hath favor among the strong men of his people, and 
as he was our champion in the house of bondage, he 
may find some one to do battle for my sake. And 
say unto him, even unto him, even unto Wilfred, the 
son of Cedric, that if Rebecca live, or if Rebecca die, 
she liveth or dieth wholly free of the guilt she is 
charged withal. And if it be the will of God that 
thou shalt be deprived of thy daughter, do not thou 
tarry, old man, in this land of bloodshed and cruelty; 
but betake thyself to Cordova, where thy brother 
liveth in safety, under the shadow of the throne, even 
of the throne of Boabdil the Saracen; for less cruel 
are the cruelties of the Moors unto the race of Jacob 
than the cruelties of the Nazarenes of England.” 

Isaac listened with tolerable composure while Ben 
Samuel read the letter, and then again resumed the 
gestures and exclamations of Oriental sorrow, tear¬ 
ing his garments, besprinkling his head with dust, 
and ejaculating, “My daughter! my daughter! flesh' 
of my flesh and bone of my bone !” 


IVANHOE 


537 


“Yet,” said the Rabbi, “take courage, for this 
grief availeth nothing. Gird up thy loins, and seek 
out this Wilfred, the son of Cedric. It may be he 
will help thee with counsel or with strength; for the 
youth hath favor in the eyes of Richard, called of 
the Nazarenes Coeur-de-Lion, and the tidings that he 
hath returned are constant in the land. It may be 
that he may obtain his letter, and his signet, com¬ 
manding these men of blood, who take their name 
from the Temple to the dishonor thereof, that they 
proceed not in their proposed wickedness.” 

“I will seek him out,” said Isaac, “for he is a 
good youth, and hath compassion for the exile of 
Jacob. But he cannot bear his armor, and what 
other Christian shall do battle for the oppressed of 
Zion?” 

“Nay, but,” said the Rabbi, “thou speakest as 
one that knoweth not the Gentiles. With gold shalt 
Ithou buy their valor, even as with gold thus buyest 
! thine own safety. Be of good courage, and do thou 
set forward to find out this Wilfred of Ivanhoe. I 
will also up and be doing, for great sin it were to 
leave thee in thy calamity. I will hie me to the city 
of York, where many warriors and strong men are 
assembled, and doubt not I will find among them 
some one who will do battle for thy daughter; for 
gold is their god, and for riches will they pawn their 
lives as well as their lands.—Thou wilt fulfill, my 
! brother, such promise as I may make unto them in 
thy name?” 

“Assuredly, brother,” said Isaac, “and Heaven 
be praised that raised me up a comforter in my 
misery. Howbeit, grant them not their full demand 
at once, for thou shalt find it the quality of this ac¬ 
cursed people that they will ask pounds and per- 
adventure accept of ounces. Nevertheless, be it as 



53& IVANHOE 

thou wiliest, for I am distracted in this thing, and 
what would my gold avail me if the child of my love 
should perish!” 

“Farewell,” said the physician, “and may it be 
to thee as thy heart desireth.” 

They embraced accordingly, and departed on their 
several roads. The crippled peasant remained for 
some time looking after them. 

“These dog-Jews!” said he; “to take no more 
notice of a free guild-brother than if I were a bond 
slave or a Turk or a circumcised Hebrew like them¬ 
selves ! They might have flung me a mancus or two, 
however. I was not obliged to bring their unhallowed 
scrawls, and run the risk of being bewitched, as 
more folks than one told me. And what care I for 
the bit of gold that the wench gave me, if I am to 
come to harm from the priest next Easter at confes¬ 
sion, and be obliged to give him twice as much to 
make it up with him, and be called the Jew’s flying 
post all my life, as it may hap, into the bargain? I 
think I was bewitched in earnest when I was beside 
that girl.—But it was always so with Jew or Gentile, 
whosover came near her—none could stay when she 
had an errand to go—and still, whenever I think of 
her, I would give shop and tools to save her life.” 


.iOj-mAVJ. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

O maid, unrelenting and cold as thou art, 

My bosom is proud as thine own. 

Seward. 

It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if 
it could be called such, had taken place, that a low 
knock was heard at the door of Rebecca’s prison- 
chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then 
engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her 
religion, and which concluded with a hymn we have 
ventured to translate into English. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out of the land ht {bondage came. 

Her fathers’ God before her moved. 

An awful guide, in smoke and flame. 

By day, along the astonish’d lands 
The cloudy pillar glided slow; 

By night, Arabia’s crimson’d sands 
Return’d the fiery column’s glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answer’d keen, 

And Zion’s daughters pour’d their lays, 

With priest’s and warrior’s voice between. 

No portents now our foes amaze, 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone; 

Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 

But, present still, though now unseen; 

When brightly shines the prosperous day 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 
To temper the deceitful ray. 

And oh, when stoops on Judah’s path 
In shade and storm the frequent night, 

Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light! 




540 


IVANHOE 


Our harps we left by Babel’s streams, 

The tyrant’s jest, the Gentile’s scorn ; 

No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn. 

But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize; 

A contrite heart, and humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 

When the sounds of Rebecca’s devotional hymn 
had died away in silence, the low knock at the door 
was again renewed. “Enter,” she said, “if thou art 
a friend; and if a foe, I have not the means of refus¬ 
ing thy entrance.” 

“I am,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, entering the 
apartment, “friend or foe, Rebecca, as the event of 
this interview shall make me.” 

Alarmed at the sight of this man, whose licentious 
passion she considered as the root of her misfortunes, 
Rebecca drew backward with a cautious and alarmed, 
yet not a timorous, demeanor, into the farthest cor¬ 
ner of the apartment, as if determined to retreat as 
far as she could, but to stand her ground when re¬ 
treat became no longer possible. She drew herself 
into an attitude not of defiance, but of resolution, as 
one that would avoid provoking assault, yet was reso¬ 
lute to repel it, being offered, to the utmost of her 
power. 

“You have no reason to fear me, Rebecca,” said 
the Templar; “or if I must so qualify my speech, 
you have at least now no reason to fear me.” 

“I fear you not, Sir Knight,” replied Rebecca, 
although her short-drawn breath seemed to belie the 
heroism of her accents; “my trust is strong and I 
fear thee not.” 

“You have no cause,” answered Bois-Guilbert, 
gravely; “my former frantic attempts you have not 
now to dread. Within your call are guards, over 


IVANHOE 


541 


whom i have no authority. They are designed to 
conduct you to death, Rebecca, yet would not suffei 
you to be insulted by any one, even by me, were my 
frenzy—for frenzy it is—to urge me so far.” 

“May Heaven be praised!” said the Jewess; 
“death is the least of my apprehensions in this den 
of evil.” 

“Ay,” replied the Templar, “the idea oi death 
is easily received by the courageous mind, when the 
road to it is sudden and open. A thrust with a lance, 
a stroke with a sword, were to me little. To you, a 
, spring from a dizzy battlement, a stroke with a sharp 
poniard, has no terrors, compared with what either 
thinks disgrace. Mark me—I say this—perhaps 
mine own sentiments of honor are not less^fantastic, 
Rebecca, than thine are; but we know alike how to 

die for them.” , . , - 

“Unhappy man,” said the Jewess; and art thou 

condemned to expose thy life for principles, of which 
thy sober judgment does not acknowledge the sol¬ 
idity? Surely this is a parting with your treasure 
for that which is not bread—but deem not so of 
me Thy resolution may fluctuate on the wild and 
changeful billows of human opinion, but mine is 

anchored on the Rock of Ages. „ . 

“Silence, maiden,” answered the Templar, such 
discourse now avails but little. Thou art condemned 
to die not a sudden and easy death, such as misery 
chooses, and despair welcomes, but a slow, wretched, 
protracted course of torture, suited to what the dia¬ 
bolical bigotry of these men calls thy crime. 

“And to whom—if such my fate—to whom do I 
owe this?” said Rebecca; “surely only to him, who. 
for a most selfish and brutal cause, dragged me 
hither, and who now, for some unknown P ur P°®® 
of his own, strives to 1 exaggerate the wretched fate 




542 


IVANHOE 


to which he exposed me/’ 

“Think not,” said the Templar, “that I have so 
exposed thee; I would have buckled thee against such 
danger with my own bosom, as freely as ever I ex¬ 
posed it to the shafts which had otherwise reached 
thy life.” 

“Had thy purpose been the honorable protection of 
the innocent,” said Rebecca, “I have thanked thee 
for thy care—as it is, thou hast claimed merit for it 
so often, that I tell thee life is worth nothing to me, 
preserved at the price which thou wouldst exact 
for it.” 

“Truce with thine upbraidings, Rebecca,” said 
the Templar; “I have my own cause of grief, 
and brook not that thy reproaches should add to 
it.” 

“What is thy purpose, then, Sir Knight?” said 
the Jewess; “speak it briefly.—If thou hast aught 
to do, save to witness the misery thou hast caused, 
let me know it; and then, if so it please you, leavte 
me to myself—the step between time and eternity is 
short but terrible, and I have few moments to prepare 
for it.” 

“I perceive, Rebecca,” said Bois-Guilbert, “that 
thou dost continue to burden me with the charge of 
distresses, which most fain would I have prevented.” 

“Sir Knight,” said Rebecca, “I would avoid re¬ 
proaches. But what is more certain than that I owe 
my death to thine unbridled passion?” 

“You err—you err,”—said the Templar, hastily, 
“if you impute what I could neither foresee nor 
prevent to my purpose or agency.—Could I guess the 
unexpected arrival of yon dotard, whom some flashes 
of frantic valor, and the praises yielded by fools to 
the stupid self-torments of an ascetic, have raised 
for the present above his own merits, above common 




•I_van hoe 


543 


sense, above me, and above the hundreds of our Older 
who think and feel as men free from such silly and 
fantastic prejudices as are the grounds of his opin¬ 
ions and actions?” 

“Yet,” said Rebecca, “you sate a judge upon me, 
innocent—most innocent—as you knew me to be 
you concurred in my condemnation, and, if I aright 
understood, are yourself to appear in arms to assert 
my guilt, and assure my punishment.” 

“Thy patience, maiden,” replied the Templar.— 
“No race knows so well as thine own tribes how to 
submit to the time, and so to trim their bark as to 
make advantage even of an adverse wind.” 

“Lamented be the hour,” said Rebecca, that 
has taught such art to the House of Isarel! but ad¬ 
versity bends the heart as fire bends the stubborn 
steel, and those who are no longer their own gover¬ 
nors, and the denizens of their own free independent 
state, must crouch before strangers. It is our curse, 
Sir Knight, deserved, doubtless, by our,own misdeeds 
and those'of our fathers; but you—you who boast 
your freedom as your birthright, how much deeper is 
your disgrace when you stoop to soothe the preju¬ 
dices of others, and that against your own convic- 

“Your words are bitter, Rebecca,” said Bois- 
Guilbert, pacing the apartment with impatience 
“but I came not hither to bandy reproaches with 
vou.—Know that Bois-Guilbert yields not to created 
man, although circumstances may for a time induce 
him to alter his plan. His will is the mountain 
stream, which may indeed be turned for a little space 
aside by the rock, but fails not to find its course to 
the ocean. That scroll which warned thee to demand 
a champion, from whom couldst. thou think it came. 






544 


IVANHOE 


if not from Bois-Guilbert? In whom else couldst 
thou have excited such interest?” 

“A brief respite from instant death,” said Re¬ 
becca, “which will little avail me—was this all thou 
couldst do for one, on whose head thou hast heaped 
sorrow, and whom thou hast brought near even to the 
verge of the tomb ?” 

“No, maiden,” said Bois-Guilbert, “this was not 
all that I purposed. Had it not been for the accursed 
interference of yon fanatical dotard, and the fool of 
Goodalricke, who, being a Templar, affects to think 
and judge according to the ordinary rules of human¬ 
ity, the office of the Champion Defender had de¬ 
volved, not on a Preceptor, but on a Champion of 
the Order. Then I myself—such was my purpose 
—had, on the sounding of the trumpet, appeared in 
the lists as thy champion, disguised indeed in the 
fashion of a roving knight, who seeks adventure to 
prove his shield and spear; and then, let Beau- 
manoir have chosen not one, but two or three of the 
brethren here assembled, I had not doubted to cast 
them out of the saddle with my single lance. Thus, 
Rebecca, should thine innocence have been avouched, 
and to thine own gratitude would I have trusted 
for the reward of my victory.” 

“This, Sir Knight,” said Rebecca, “is but idle 
boasting—a brag of what you would have done had 
you not found it convenient to do otherwise. You 
received my glove, and my champion, if a creature 
so desolate can find one, must encounter your lance 
in the lists—yet you would assume the air of my 
friend and protector!” 

“Thy friend and protector,” said the Templar, 
gravely, “I will yet be—but mark at what risk, or 
rather at what certainty, of dishonor; and then blame 
me not if I make my stipulations, before I offer up 


IVANHOE 


545 


all that I have hitherto held dear, to save, the life of 
a Jewish maiden.” 

“Speak,” said Rebecca; “I understand thee not.” 

“Well, then,” said Bois-Guilbert, “I will speak 
as freely as ever did doting penitent to his ghostly 
father, when placed in the tricky confessional.— 
Rebecca, if I appear not in these lists I lose fame 
and rank—lose that which is the breath of my nos¬ 
trils, the esteem, I mean, in which I am held by my 
brethren, and the hopes I have of succceeding to that 
mighty authority, which is now wielded by the 
bigoted dotard Lucas de Beaumanoir, but of which I 
should make a far different use. Such is my certain 
doom, except I appear in arms against thy cause. 
Accursed be he of Goodalricke, who baited this trap 
for me! and doubly accursed Albert de Malvoisin, 
who withheld me from the resolution I had formed, 
of hurling back the glove at the face of the supersti¬ 
tious and superannuated fool, who listened to a 
charge so absurd, and against a creature so high in 
mind, and so lovely in form as tRou art!” 

“And what now avails rant or flattery?” answered 
Rebecca. “Thou hast made thy choice between 
causing to be shed the blood of an innocent woman, 
or of endangering thine own earthly state and earthly 
hopes. What avails it to reckon together?—thy 
choice is made.” 

“No, Rebecca,” said the knight, in a softer tone, 
and drawing nearer towards her; “my choice is NOT 
made—nay, mark, it is thine to make the election. 
If I appear in the lists, I must maintain my name in 
arms; and if I do so, championed or unchampioned, 
thou diest by the stake and fagot, for there lives not 
the knight who hath coped with me in arms on equal 
issue, or on terms of vantage, save Richard Coeur- 
de-Lion, and his minion of Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe, as 



IVANHOE 


546 


thou well knowest, is unable to bear his corselet, and 
Richard is in a foreign prison. If I appear, then 
thou diest, even although thy charms should insti¬ 
gate some hot-headed youth to enter the lists in thy 
defense.” 

“And what avails repeating this so often?” said 
Rebecca. 

“Much,” replied the Templar; “for thou mujst 
learn to look at thy fate on every side.” 

“Well, then, turn the tapestry,” said the Jewess, 
“and let me see the other side.” 

“If I appear,” said Bois-Guilbert, “in the fatal 
lists, thou diest by a slow and cruel death, in pain 
such as they say is destined to the guilty hereafter. 
But if I appear not, then am I a degraded and dis¬ 
honored knight, accused of witchcraft and of com¬ 
munion with infidels—the illustrious name, which 
has grown yet more so under my wearing, becomes a 
hissing and a reproach. I lose fame, I lose honor, I 
lost the prospect of such greatness as scarce emperors 
attain to—I sacrifice mighty ambition, I destroy 
schemes built as high as the mountains with which 
heathens say their heaven was once nearly scaled— 
and yet, Rebecca,” he added, throwing himself at 
her feet, “this greatness will I sacrifice, this fame 
will I renounce, this power will I forego, even now 
when it is half within my grasp, if thou wilt say, 
Bois-Guilbert, I receive thee for my lover.” 

“Think not of such foolishness, Sir Knight,” an¬ 
swered Rebecca, “but hasten to the Regent, the Queen 
Mother, and to Prince John—they cannot, in honor 
to the English crown, allow of the proceedings of 
your Grand Master. So shall you give me protection 
without sacrifice on your part, or the pretext of re¬ 
quiring any requital from me.” 

“With these I deal not,” he continued, holding the 


IVANHOE 


547 


train of her robe “It is thee only I address; and 
what can counterbalance thy choice? Bethink thee, 
were X a fiend, yet death is a worse, and it is death 
who is my rival.” 

I weigh not these evils,” said Rebecca, afraid to 
provoke the wild knight, yet equally determined 
neither to endure his passion, nor even feign to en¬ 
dure it. “Be a man, be a Christian! If indeed thy 
faith recommends that mercy which rather your 
tongues than your actions pretend, save me from 
this dreadful death, without seeking a requital 
which would change thy magnanimity into base bar¬ 
ter.” 

No, damsel!” said the proud Templar, springing 
up, thou shalt not thus impose on me—if I renounce 
present fame and future ambition, I renounce 
it thy sake, and we will escape in company. 
Listen to me, Rebecca,” he said, again softening his 
tone; “England,—Europe,—is not the world. There 
are spheres in which we may act, ample enough even 
for my ambition. We will go to Palestine, where 
Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, is my friend—a 
friend free as myself from the doting scruples which 
fetter out free-born reason—rather with Saladin will 
we league ourselves, than endure the scorn of the 
bigots whom we contemn.—I will form new paths to 
greatness,” he continued, again traversing the room 
with hasty strides—“Europe shall hear the loud step 
of him she has driven from her sons!—Not the mil¬ 
lions whom her crusaders send to slaughter, can do 
so much to defend Palestine—not the sabers of the 
thousands and ten thousands of Saracens can hew 
their way so deep into that land for which nations 
are striving, as the strength and policy of me and 
those brethren, who, in despite of yonder old bigot, 
will adhere to me in good and evil. Thou shalt be 



548 


IVANHOE 


a queen, Rebecca—on Mount Carmel shall we pitch 
the throne which my valor will gain for you, and 1 
will exchange my long-desired batoon for a scepter!” 

“A dream,” said Rebecca; “an empty vision of the 
night, which, were it a waking reality, affects me not. 
Enough, that the power which thou mightest acquire, 
I will never share; nor hold 1 so light of country or 
religious faith, as to esteem him who is wiling to 
barter these ties, and cast away the bonds of the 
Order of which he is a sworn member, in order to 
gratify an unruly passion for the daughter of another 
people.—Put not a price on my deliverance, Sir Knight 
—sell not a deed of generosity—protect the oppressed 
for the sake of charity, and not for a selfish advan¬ 
tage.—Go to the throne of England; Richard will 
listen to my appeal from these cruel men.” 

“Never, Rebecca!” said the Templar, fiercely. “If 
I renounce my Order, for thee alone will I renounce 
it. Ambition shall remain mine, if thou refuse my 
love; I will not be fooled on all hands.—Stoop my 
crest to Richard?—ask a boon of that heart of pride? 
—Never, Rebecca, will I place the Order of the Temple 
at his feet in my person. I may forsake the Order, 
I never will degrade or betray it.” 

“Now God be gracious to me,” said Rebecca, “for 
the succor of man is well-nigh hopeless!” 

“It is indeed,” said the Templar: “for, proud as 
thou art, thou hast in me found thy match. If I 
enter the lists with my spear in rest, think not any 
human consideration shall prevent my putting forth 
my strength; and think then upon thine own fate— 
to die the dreadful death of the worst of criminals— 
to be consumed upon a blazing pile—dispersed to the 
elements of which our strange forms are so mystically 
composed—not a relic left of that graceful frame, 
from which we could say this lived and moved!— 


IVANHOE 


649 


Rebecca, it is not in woman to sustain this pros¬ 
pect—thou wilt yield to my suit.” 

“Bois-Guilbert,” answered the Jewess, “thou know- 
e t not the heart of woman, or hast only conversed 
with those who are lost to her best feelings. I tell 
thee, proud. Templar, that not in thy fiercest battles 
hast thou displayed more of thy vaunted courage than 
has been shown by woman when called upon to suffer 
by affection or duty. I am myself a woman, tenderly 
nurtured, naturally fearful of danger, and impatient 
of pain—yet, when we enter those fatal lists, thou 
to fight and I to suffer, I feel the strong assurance 
within me that my courage shall mount higher than 
thine. Farewell—I waste no more words on thee; 
the time that remains on earth to the daughter of 
Jacob must be otherwise spent—she must seek the 
Comforter, who may hide his face from his people, 
but who ever opens his ear to the cry of those who 
seek him in sincerity and in truth.” 

“We part then thus?” said the Templar, after a 
short pause; “Would to Heaven that we had never 
met, or that thou hadst been noble in birth and Chris¬ 
tian in faith!—Nay, by Heaven! when I gaze on thee, 
and think when and how we are next to meet, I could 
even wish myself one of thine own degraded nation; 
my hand conversant with ingots and shekels, instead 
of spear and shield; my head bent down before each 
petty noble, and my look only terrible to the shiver¬ 
ing and bankrupt debtor,—this could I wish, Re¬ 
becca, to be near to thee in life, and to escape the 
fearful share I must have in thy death.” 

“Thou hast spoken the Jew,” said Rebecca, “as the 
persecution of such as thou art has made him. Heaven 
in ire has driven him from his country, but industry 
has opened to him the only road to power and to in¬ 
fluence, which oppression has left unbarred. Read 

p .. * . .. f 'V , 



550 


IVANHOE 


the ancient history of the people of God, and tell me 
if those, by whom Jehovah wrought such marvels 
among the nations, were then a people of misers and 
usurers!—And know, proud knight, we number names 
amongst us to which your boasted northern nobility 
is as the gourd compared with the cedar—names that 
ascend far back to those high times when the Di¬ 
vine Presence shook the mercy seat between the 
cherubim, and which derive their splendor from 
no earthly prince, but from the awful Voice, which 
bade their fathers be nearest of the congregation 
to the Vision. Such were the princes of the House 
of Jacob.” 

Rebecca’s color rose as she boasted the ancient 
glories of her race, but faded, as she added, with a 
sigh, “Such were the princes of Judah, now such no 
more !—They are trampled down like the shorn grass, 
and mixed with the mire of the ways. Yet are there 
those among them who shame not such high descent, 
and of such shall be the daughter of Isaac the son 
of Adonikam! Farewell!—I envy not thy blood-won 
honors—I envy not thy barbarous descent from north¬ 
ern heathens—I envy thee not thy faith, which is 
ever in thy mouth, but never in thy heart nor in thy 
practice.” 

“There is a spell on me, by Heaven!” said Bois- 
Guilbert. “I almost think yon besotted skeleton spoke 
truth, and that the reluctance with which I part from 
thee hath something in it more than is natural — 
Fair creature!” he said, approaching near her, bui 
with great respect,—‘‘so young, so beautiful, so fear 
less of death! and yet doomed to die and with infamj 
and agony. Who would not weep for thee ?—The tear 
that has been a stranger to these eyelids for twenty 
years, moistens them as I gaze on thee. But it mus' 
be—nothing may now save thy life. Thou and I ar< 




IVANHOE 


551 


but the blind instruments of some irresistible fatality 
that hurries us along, like goodly vessels driving be¬ 
fore the storm, which are dashed against each other, 
and so perish. Forgive me, then, and let us part at 
least as friends part. I have assailed thy resolution 
in vain, and mine own is fixed as the adamantine de¬ 
crees of fate.” 

“Thus,” said Rebecca, “do men throw on fate the 
issue of their own wild passions. But I do forgive 
thee, Bois-Guilbert, though the author of my early 
death. There are noble things which cross over thy 
powerful mind; but it is the garden of the sluggard, 
and the weeds have rushed up, and conspired to choke 
the fair and wholesome blossom.” 

“Yes,” said the Templar, “I am, Rebecca, as thou 
hast spoken me, untaught, untamed—and proud, that, 
amidst a shoal of empty fools and crafty bigots, I 
have retained the preeminent fortitude that places me 
above them. I have been a child of battle from my 
youth upward, high in my views, steady and inflexi¬ 
ble in pursuing them. Such must I remain—proud, 
inflexible, and unchanging; and of this the world 
shall have proof.—But thou forgivest me, Rebecca?” 

“As freely as ever victim forgave her executioner.” 

“Farewell, then,” said the Templar, and left the 
apartment. 

The Preceptor Albert waited impatiently in an 
adjacent chamber the return of Bois-Guilbert. 

“Thou hast tarried long,” he said; “I have been 
as if stretched on red-hot iron with very impatience. 
What if the Grand Master, or his spy Conrade, had 
come hither? I had paid dear for my complaisance. 
—But what ails thee, brother?—Thy step totters, thy 
brow is as black as night. Art thou well, Bois-Guil¬ 
bert?” 

“Ay,” answered the Templar, “as well as the wretch 


552 


IVANHOE 


who is doomed to -die within an hour. Nay, by the 
rood, not half so well—for there be these in such 
state, who can lay down life like a cast-off garment. 
By Heaven, Malvoisin, yonder girl hath well-nigh un¬ 
manned me. I am half resolved to go to the Grand 
Master, abjure the Order to his very teeth, and refuse 
to act the brutality which his tyranny has imposed 
on me.” 

‘‘Thou art mad,” answered Malvoisin; “thou mayest 
thus indeed utterly ruin thyself, but canst not even 
find a chance thereby to save the life of this Jewess, . 
which seems so precious in thine eyes. Beaumanoir 
will name another of the Order to defend his judg- ■ 
ment in thy place, and the accused will assuredly -j 
perish as if thou hadst taken the duty imposed on 
thee.” 

“ ’Tis false—I will myself take arms in her behalf,” 
answered the Templar, haughtily; “and, should I do 
so, I think, Malvoisin, that thou knowest not one of 
the Order who will keep his saddle before the point 
of my lance.” 

“Ay, but thou forgettest,” said the wily adviser, 
“thou wilt have neither leisure nor opportunity to 
execute this mad project. Go to Lucas Beaumanoir, 
and say thou hast renounced thy vow of obedience, 
and see how long the despotic old man will leave thee 
in personal freedom. The words shall scarce have left 
thy lips ere thou wilt either be an hundred feet un¬ 
derground, in the dungeon of the Preceptory, to abide ■, 
trial as a recreant knight; or, if his opinon holds 
concerning thy possession, thou wilt be enjoying straw, 
darkness, and chains, in some distant convent cell, 
stunned with exorcisms, and drenched with holy water, 
to expel the foul fiend which hath obtained dominion 
over thee. Thou must to the lists, Brian, or thou art 
a lost and dishonored man.” 



IVANHOE 


553 


“I will break forth and fly,” said Bois-Guilbert,— 
“fly to some distant land, to which folly and fanati¬ 
cism have not yet found their way. No drop of the 
blood of this most excellent creature shall be spilled 
by my sanction.” 

“Thou canst not fly,” said the Preceptor; “thy 
ravings have excited suspicion, and thou wilt not be 
permitted to leave the Preceptory. Go and make the 
essay—present thyself before the gate, and command 
the bridge to be lowered, and mark what answer 
thou shalt receive.—Thou art surprised and offended; 
but is it not the better for thee? Wert thou to fly, 
what would ensue but the reversal of thy arms, the 
dishonor of thine ancestry, the degradation of thy 
rank?—Think on it. Where shall thine old compan¬ 
ions in arms hide their heads when Brian de Bois- 
Guilbert, the best lance of the Templars, is proclaimed 
recreant, amid the hisses of the assembled people? 
What grief will be at the Court of France! With 
what joy will the haughty Richard hear the news, 
that the knight that set him hard in Palestine, and 
well-nigh darkened his renown, has lost fame and 
honor for a Jewish girl, whom he could not even save 
by so costly a sacrifice!” 

“Malvoisin,” said the Knight, “I think thee—thou 
hast touched the string at which my heart most readi¬ 
ly thrills!—Come of it what may, recreant shall never 
be added to the name of Bois-Guilbert. Would to 
God, Richard, or any of his vaunting minions of 
England, would appear in these lists! But they will 
be empty—no one will risk to break a lance for the 
innocent, the forlorn.” 

“The better for thee, if it prove so,” said the Pre¬ 
ceptor; “if no champion appears, it is not by thy 
means that this unlucky damsel shall die, but by the 





554 


IVANHOE 


doom of the Grand Master, with whom rests all the 
blame, and who will count that blame for praise and 
commendation.” 

“True,” said Bois-Guilbert; “if no champion ap¬ 
pears, I am but a part of the pageant, sitting indeed 
on horseback in the lists, but having no part in what 
is to follow.” 

“None whatever,” said Malvoisin; “no more than 
the armed image of Saint George when it makes part 
of a procession.” 

“Well, I will resume my resolution,” replied the 
haughty Templar. “She has despised me—repulsed 
me—reviled me.—And wherefore should I offer up 
for her whatever of estimation I have in the opinion 
of others? Malvoisin, I will appear in the lists.” 

He left the apartment hastily as he uttered these 
words, and the Preceptor followed, to watch and con¬ 
firm in his resolution; for in Bois-Guilbert’s fame 
he had himself a strong interest, expecting much 
advantage from his being one day at the head of 
the Order, not to mention the preferment of which 
Mont-Fitchet had given him hopes, on condition he 
would forward the condemnation of the unfortunate 
Rebecca. Yet although, in combating his friend’s 
better feelings, he possessed all the advantage which 
a wily, composed, selfish disposition has over a man 
agitated by strong and contending passions, it re¬ 
quired all Malvoisin’s art to keep Bois-Guilbert steady 
to the purpose he had prevailed on him to adopt. 
He was obliged to watch him closely to prevent his 
resuming his purpose of flight, to intercept his com¬ 
munication with the Grand Master, lest he should 
come to an open rupture with his Superior, and to 
renew, from time to time, the various arguments by 
which he endeavored to show, that, in appearing as 


IVANHOE 


555 


champion on this occasion, Bois-Guilbert, without 
either accelerating or insuring the fate of Rebecca, 
would follow the only course by which he could 
save himself from degradation and disgrace. 


Question: Will Bois-Guilbert fight to an advantage if 
a champion does appear for Rebecca, or win he try to save 

her? 




CHAPTER XL 

Shadows avaunt!—'Richard’s himself again. 

Richard 111. 


When the Black Knight—for It becomes necessary 
to resume the train of his adventures—left the Tryst- 
ing-tree of the generous Outlaw, he held his way 
straight to a neighboring religious house, of small 
extent and revenue, called the Priory of St. Botolph, 
to which the wounded Ivanhoe had been removed 
when the castle was taken, under the guidance of 
the faithful Gurth and the magnanimous Wamba. It 
is unnecessary at present to mention what took place 
in the interim betwixt Wilfred and his deliverer; 
suffice it to say, that after long and grave communi¬ 
cation, messengers were dispatched by the Prior in 
several directions, and that on the succeeding morn ¬ 
ing the Black Knight was about to set forth on his 
journey, accompanied by the jester Wamba, who 
attended as his guide. 

“We will meet,” he said to Ivanhoe, “at Conings- 
burgh, the castle of the deceased Athelstane, since 
there thy father Cedric holds the funeral feast for 
his noble relation. I would see your Saxon kindred 
together, Sir Wilfred, and become better acquainted 
with them than heretofore. Thou also wilt meet me; 
and it shall be my task to reconcile thee to thy 
father.” 

So saying, he took an affectionate farewell of Ivan¬ 
hoe, who expressed an anxious desire to attend upon 
his deliverer. But the Black Knight would not listen 
to the proposal. 

Rest this day; thou wilt have scarce strength 
enough to travel on the next. I will have no guide 


IVANHOE 


557 


with me but honest Wamba, who can play priest or 
tool as I snail be most in the humor.’' 

“And I,” said Wamba, “will attend you with all 
my heart. 1 would fain see the feasting at the 
funeral of Athelstane; for, if it be not full and fre¬ 
quent, he will rise from the dead to rebuke cook, 
sewer, and cup-bearer; and that were a sight worth 
seeing. Always, Sir Knight, 1 will trust your valor 
with making my excuse to my master Cedric, in case 
mine own wit should fail.” 

“And how should my poor valor succeed, Sir 
Jester, when thy light wit halts?—resolve me that.” 

“Wit, Sir Knight,” replied the Jester, “may do 
much. He is a quick, apprehensive knave who sees 
his neighbor’s blind side, and knows how to keep the 
lee-gage when his passions are blowing high. But 
valor is a sturdy fellow, that makes all split. He 
rows against both wind and tide, and makes way 
notwithstanding; and, therefore, good Sir Knight, 
while I take advantage of the fair weather in our 
noble master’s temper, I will expect you to bestir 
yourself when it grows rough.” 

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock, since it is your 
pleasure so to be distinguished,” said Ivanhoe, “I 
fear me you have chosen a talkative and a trouble¬ 
some fool to be your guide. But he knows every 
path and alley in the woods as well as e’er a hunter 
who frequents them; and the poor knave, as thou 
ha:t partly seen, is as faithful as steel.” 

“Nay.” said the Knight, “an he have the gift of 
showing my road, I shall not grumble with him that 
he desires to make it pleasant.—Fare thee well, kind 
Wilfred—I charge thee not to attempt to travel till 
to-morrow at earliest.” 

So saying,.he extended his hand to Ivanhoe, who 
pressed It to his lips, took leave of the Prior, mount- 




558 


IVANHOE 


ed his horse, and departed, with Wamba for his com¬ 
panion. lvanhoe followed them with his eyes, until 
they were lost in the shades of the surrounding for¬ 
est, and tiien returned into the convent. 

But shortly after matin-song, he requested to see 
the Prior. The old man came in haste, and inquired 
anxiously after the state of his health. 

“It is better,” he said, “than my fondest hope 
could have anticipated; either my wound has been 
slighter than the effusion of blood led me to suppose, 
or this balsam hath wrought a wonderful cure upon 
it. I feel already as if I could bear my corselet; 
and so much the better, for thoughts pass in my 
mind which render me unwilling to remain here 
longer in inactivity.” 

“Now, the saints forbid,” said the Prior, “that 
the son of the Saxon Cedric should leave our con¬ 
vent ere his wounds were healed! It were shame to 
our profession were we to suffer it.” 

“Nor would I desire to leaVe your hospitable 
roof, venerable father,” said lvanhoe, “did I not 
feel myself able to endure the journey, and com¬ 
pelled to undertake it.” 

“And what can have urged you to so sudden a 
departure?” said the Prior. 

“Have you never, holy father,” answered the 
Knight, “felt an apprehension of approaching evil, 
for which you in vain attempted to assign a cause? 
—Have you never found your mind darkened, like 
the sunny landscape, by the sudden cloud, which 
augurs a coming tempest?—And thinkest thou not 
that such impulses are deserving of attention, as 
being the hints of our guardian spirits, that danger 
is impending?” 

“I may not deny,” said the Prior, crossing him¬ 
self ; “that such things have been, and have been of 


IVANHOE 559 

Heaven; but then such communications have but 
a visibly useful scope and tendency. But thou, 
wounded as thou art, what avails it thou shouldst 
follow the steps of him whom thou couldst not aid, 
were he to be assaulted?’’ 

“Prior,” said Ivanhoe, “thou dost mistake—I am 
stout enough to exchange buffets with any who will 
challenge me to such a traffic.—(But were it other¬ 
wise, may I not aid him were he in danger, by other 
means than by force of arms? It is but too well 
known that the Saxons love not the Norman race, 
and who knows what may be the issue, if he break 
in upon them when their hearts are irritated by the 
death of Athelstane, and their heads heated by the 
carousal in which they will indulge themselves? I 
hold his entrance among them at such a moment 
most perilous, and I am resolved to share or avert 
the danger; which, that I may the better do, I would 
crave of thee the use of some palfrey whose pace 
may be softer than that of my destrier .”* 

“Surely,” said the worthy churchman; "you 
;shall have mine own ambling jennet, and I would it 
ambled as easy for your sake as that of the Abbot 
of Saint Albans. Yet this will I say for Malkin, 
for so I call her, that unless you were to borrow a 
ride on the juggler’s steed that paces a hornpipe 
among the eggs, you could not go a journey on a 
creature so gentle and smooth-paced. I have com¬ 
posed many a homily on her back, to the edification 
of my brethren of the convent, and many poor 
Christian souls.” 

^‘War-horse.—'Scott. 

Question : What is Scott forecasting when he has 
Ivanhoe feel a presentment of danger? 

Question: How does his anxiety make him any nearer 
to Rebecca? 






560 


Ivan hoe 


**1 pray you, reverend father,” said Ivanhoe, “let 
Malkin be got ready instantly, and bid Gurth at¬ 
tend me with mine arms.” 

‘‘Nay, but fair sir,” said the Prior, ‘‘I pray you 
to remember that Mjalkin hath as little skill in arms 
as her master, and that I warrant not her enduring 
the sight or weight of your full panoply. 0, Mal¬ 
kin, I promise you, is a beast of judgment, and will 
contend against any undue weight—1 did but bor¬ 
row the Fructus Temporum' from the priest of Saint 
Bees, and I promise you she would not stir from 
the gate until I had exchanged the huge volume ofr 
my little breviary.” 

“Trust me, holy father,” said Ivanhoe, “I will 
not distress her with too much weight; and if she 
calls a combat with me, it is odds but she has the 
worst.” 

This reply was made while Gurth was buckling on 
the Knight’s heels a pair of large gilded spurs, 
capable of convincing any restive horse that his best 
safety lay in being conformable to the will of his 
rider. 

The deep and sharp rowels with which Ivanhoe’s 
heels were now armed, began to make the worthy 
Prior repent of his courtesy, and ejaculate,—“Nay, 
but fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin abideth 
not the spur. Better it were that you tarry for the 
mare of our manciple down at the Grange, which 
may be had in little more than an hour, and cannot 
but be tractable, in respect that she draweth much 
of our winter firewood, and eateth no corn.” 

“I thank you, reverend father, but will abide by 
your first offer, as I see Malkin is already led forth 
to the gate. Gurth shall carry mine armor; and 
for the rest, rely on it, that as I will not overload 


^‘Fruit of the time,” a book. 



IVANHOE 


561 


Malkin s back, she shall not overcome my patience. 
And now, farewell!” 

Ivanhoe now descended the stairs more hastily 
and easily than his wound promised, and threw him¬ 
self upon the jennet, eager to escape the importunity 
of the Prior, who stuck as closely to his side as 
his age and fatness would permit, now singing the 
praises of Maj.kin, now recommending caution to the 
Knight in managing her. 

She is at the most dangerous period for maidens 
as well as mares,” said the old man, laughing at his 
own jest, “being barely in her fifteenth year/’ 

Ivanhoe, who had other web to weave than to 
stand canvassing a palfrey’s paces with its owner, 
j lent but a deaf ear to the Prior’s grave advices and 
facetious jests, and having leapt on his mare, and 
commanded his squire (for such Gurth now called 
himself) to keep close by his side, he followed the 
track of the Black Knight into the forest, while the 
Prior stood at the gate of the convent looking after 
him and ejaculating,—“Saint Mary! how prompt 
and fiery be these men of war! I would I had not 
trusted Malkin to his keeping, for, crippled as I am 
with the cold rheum, I am undone if aught but good 
befalls her. And yet,” said he, recollecting him¬ 
self, “as I would not spare my own old and disabled 
limbs in the good cause of Old England, so Malkin 
must e en run her hazard on the same venture; and 
it may be they will think our poor house worthy of 
some munificent guerdon—or, it may be, thev will 
l send the old Prior a pacing nag. And if they do 
none of these, as great men will forget little men’s 
service, truly I shall hold me well repaid in having 
done "that which is right. And it is now well-nigh 
the fitting time to summon the brethren to breakfast 
in the refectory.—Ah! I doubt they obey that call 



562 


Ivan hoe 


more Cheerily than the bells for primes and matins.” 

So the Prior of Samt Botolph’s hobbled back again 
into the refectory, to preside over the stockfish and 
ale, which was just serving out for tne friars’ break¬ 
fast. Pursy and important, he sat him down at the 
table, and many a dark word he fthrew out, of 
benefits to be expected to the convent, and high 
deeds of service done by himself, which, at another 
season, would have attracted observation. But as 
the stockfLh was highly salted, and the ale reason¬ 
ably powerful, the jaws of the brethren were too 
anxiously employed to admit of their making much 
use of their ears; nor do we read of any of the fra¬ 
ternity, who was tempted to speculate upon the 
mysterious hints of their Superior, except Father 
Diggory, who was severely afflicted by the toothache, 
so that he could only eat on one side of his jaws. 

In the meantime, the Black Champion and his 
guide were pacing at their leisure through the 
rece'ses of the forest; the good Knight whiles hum¬ 
ming to himself the lay of some enamored trouba¬ 
dour, sometimes encouraging by questions the prat¬ 
ing disposition of his attendant, so that their 
dialogue formed a whimsical mixture of song and 
jest, of which we would fain give our readers some 
idea. You are then to imagine this Knight, such 
as we have already described him, strong of person, 
tall, broad-shouldered, and large of bone, mounted 
on his mierhty black charger, which seemed made on 
purpose to bear his weight, so easily he paced for¬ 
ward under it, having the visor of his helmet raised, 
In order to admit freedom of breath, yet keeping 
the beaver, or under part, closed, so that his feat¬ 
ures could be but imperfectly distinguished. But his 
ruddy embrowned cheek-bones could be plainly seen, 
and the large and bright blue eyes, that flashed 



IVANHOE 


563 


from under the dark shade of the raised visor; and 
the whole gesture and look of the champion ex¬ 
pressed careless gayety and fearless confidence—a 
mind which was unapt to apprehend danger, and 
prompt to uefy t when most imminent, yet with 
whom danger was a familiar thought, as with one 
whose trade was war and adventure. 

The Jester wore his usual fantastic habit, but late 
accidents had led him to adopt a good cutting fal¬ 
chion, instead of his wooden sword, with a targe 
to match it; of both which weapons he had, notwith¬ 
standing his profession, shown himself a skillful 
master during the storming of Torquilstone. In¬ 
deed, the infirmity of Wamba’s brain consisted chief¬ 
ly in a kind of impatient irritability, which suffered 
him not long to remain quiet in any posture, or 
adhere to any certain train of ideas, although he 
was for a few minutes alert enough in performing 
any immediate task, or in apprehending any im¬ 
mediate topics On horfseOack, therefore, he was 
perpetually swinging himself backwards and for¬ 
wards, now on the horse’s ears, then anon on the 
very rump of the animal, now hanging both his legs 
on one side, and now sitting with his face to the tail, 
moping, mowing, and making a thousand apish 
gestures, until his palfrey took his freaks so much 
to heart, as fairly to lay him at his length on the 
green grass—an incident which greatly amused the 
Knight but compelled his companion to ride more 
steadily thereafter. 

At the point of their journey at which we take 
them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a 
virelai as it was called, in which the clown bore a 
mellow burden, to the better instructed Knight of 
the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:— 



564 


IVANHOE 


Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, 

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free, 

Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. 

Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn. 

The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, 

’Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie. 

Wamba 

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 

Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit. 

For what are the joys that in waking we prove. 
Compared with these visions, O, Tybalt, my love V 
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill. 

Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill, 

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,— 
But think not I dreamt of thee Tybalt, my love. 

“A dainty song,” said Wamba, when they had 
finished their carol, “and I swear by my bauble a 
pretty moral!—I used to sing it with Gurth, once 
my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and his 
master, no less than a freeman; and- we once came 
by the cudgel for being so entranced by the melody 
that we lay in bed two hours after sunrise, singing 
the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking—my bones 
ache at thinking of the tune ever since. Never¬ 
theless, I have played the part of Anna-Marie, to 
please you, fair sir.” 

The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort 
of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catching up 
the tune, replied in the like manner. 

Knight and Wamba 

There came three merry men from south, west, and north, 
Ever more sing the roundelay; 


IVANHOE 


565 


To win the Widow of Wycombe forth, 

And where was the widow might say them nay? 

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came, 

Ever more sing the roundelay; 

And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame, 
And where was the widow might say him nay? 

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire, 

He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay; 

She bade him go back to his sea-coal fire, 

For she was the widow would say him nay. 

Wamba 

The next that come forth, swore by blood and by nails, 
Merrily sing the roundelay; 

Hur’s a gentleman, God wot, and hur’s lineage was of Wales 
And where was the widow might say him nay? 

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh 
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay; 

She said that one widow for so many was too few, 

And she bade the Welshman wend his way. 

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent, 

Jollily singing his roundelay; 

He spoke to the widow of living and rent, 

And where was the widow could say him nay? 

Both 

So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire, 
There for to sing their roundelay; 

For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent, 

There never was a widow could say him nay. 

“I would, Wamba,” said the Knight, “that our 
host of the Trysting-tree, or the jolly Friar, his 
chaplain, heard this thy ditty in praise of our bluff 
yeoman.” 





666 


IVANHOE 


“So would not I,” said Wamba—“but for the horn 
that hangs at your baldric.” 

“Ay,” said the Knight,—“this is a pledge of Lock- 
sley’s good-will, though I am not like to need it. 
Three mots on this bugle will, I am assured, bring 
round, at our need, a jolly band of yonder honest 
yeomen.” 

“I would say, Heaven forefend,” said the Jester, 
“were it not that that fair gift is a pledge, they 
would let us pass peaceably.” 

“Why, what meanest thou?” said the Knight; 
“thinkest thou that but for this pledge of fellowship 
they would assault us?” 

“Nay, for me I say nothing,” said Wamba; ‘ r for 
green trees have ears as well as stone walls. But 
canst thou construe me this, Sir Knight—When is 
thy wine-pitcher and thy purse better empty than 
full?” 

“Why, never, I think,” replied the Knight. 

“Thou never deservest to have a full one in thy 
hand, for so simple an answer! Thou hadst best 
empty thy pitcher ere thou pass it to the Saxon, and 
leave thy money at home ere thou walk in the 
greenwood.” 

“You hold our friends for robbers, then?” said 
the Knight of the Fetterlock. 

“You hear me not say so, fair sir,” said Wamba; 
“it may relieve a man’s steed to take off his mail 
when he hath a long journey to make; and, certes, 
it may do good to the rider’s soul to ease him of that 
which is the root of evil; therefore will I give no 
hard names to those who do such services. Only I 
would wish my mail at home, and my purse in my 
chamber, when I meet with these good fellows, be¬ 
cause it might save them some trouble.” 

“We are bound to pray for them, my friend, not- 


IVANHOE 


567 

withstanding the fair character thou dost afford 
them.” 

u “Pray for them with all my heart,” said Wamba; 

but in the town, not in the greenwood, like the 
Abbot of Saint Bees, whom they caused to say mass 
with an old hollow oak-tree for his stall.” 

“Say as thou list, Wamba,” replied the Knight, 
“these yeomen did thy master Cedric yeomanly ser¬ 
vice at Torquilstone.” 

“Ay, truly,” answered Wamba; “but that was in 
the fashion of their trade with Heaven.” 

Their trade, Wamba! how mean you by that?” 
replied his companion. 

“Marry, thus,” said the Jester. “They make up 
a balanced account with Heaven, as our old cellarer 
used to call his ciphering, as fair as Isaac the Jew 
keeps with his debtors, and, like him, give out a very 
little, and take large credit for doing so; reckoning, 
doubtless, on their own behalf the seven-fold usury 
which the blessed text 1 hath promised to charitable 
loans.” 

“Give me an example of your meaning, Wamba,— 
I know nothing of ciphers or rates of usage,” an¬ 
swered the Knight. 

“Why,” said Wamba, “an your valor be so dull, 
you will please to learn that those honest fellows 
balance a good deed with one not quite so laudable; 
as a crown given to a begging friar with an hundred 
byzants taken from a fat abbot, or a wench kissed in 
the greenwood with the relief of a poor widow.” 

“Which of these was the good deed, which was 
the felony?” interrupted the Knight. 

“A good gibe! a good gibe!” said Wamba; ^keep¬ 
ing witty company sharpeneth the apprehension. 
You said nothing so well, Sir Knight, I will be 


^uke VI. 38, 





568 


IVANHOE 


sworn, when you held drunken vespers with the bluff 
Hermit.—But to go on. The merry-men of the forest 
set off the building of a cottage with the burning of 
a castle,—the thatching of a choir against the rob¬ 
bing of a church,—the setting free a poor prisoner 
against the murder of a proud sheriff; or, to come 
nearer to our point, the deliverance of a Saxon 
franklin against the burning alive of a Norman 
baron. Gentle thieves they are, in short, and court¬ 
eous robbers; but it is ever the luckiest to meet with 
them when they are at the worst.” 

“How so, Wamba?” said the Knight. 

“Why, then they have some compunction, and are 
for making up matters with Heaven. But when they 
have struck an even balance, Heaven help them with 
whom they next open the account! The travelers 
who first met them after their good service at Tor- 
quilstone would have a woeful flaying.—And yet,” 
said Wamba, coming close up to the Knight's side, 
“there be companions who are far more dangerous 
for travelers to meet than yonder outlaws.” 

“And who may they be, for you have neither bears 
nor wolves, I trow?” said the Knight. 

“Marry, sir, but we have Mjalvoisin’s men-at- 
arms,” said Wamba; “and let me tell you, that, in 
time of civil war, a halfscore of these is worth a 
band of wolves at any time. They are now expecting 
their harvest, and are reinforced with the soldiers 
tnat escaped from Torquilstone. So that should we 
meet with a band of them, we are like to pay for our 
feats of arms. iNOw, I pray you, Sir Knight, what 
would you do if we met two of them?” 

“Pin the villains to the earth with my lance, Wam¬ 
ba, if they offered us any impediment.” 

“But what if there were four of them?” 



IVANHOE 


569 


“They should drink of the same cup,” answered 

the Knight. 

“What if six,” continued Wamba, “and we as we 
now are, barely two—would you not remember 
Locksley’s horn?” 

“What! sound for aid,” exclaimed (the Knight, 
“against a score of such rascaille as these, whom 
one good knight could drive before him, as the wind 
drives the withered leaves?” 

“Nay. then,” said Wamba, “I will pray you for 
a close sight of that same horn that hath so power¬ 
ful a breath.” 

The knight undid the clasp of the baldric, and 
indulged his fellow-traveler, who immediately hung 
the bugle round his own neck. 

“Tra-lira-la,” said he, whistling the notes; “nay, 
I know my gamut as well as another.” 

“What mean you, knave?” said the Knight; “re¬ 
store me the bugle.” 

“Content you, Sir Knight, it is in safe keeping, 
i: When Valor and Folly travel, Folly should bear the 
horn, because she can blow the best.” 

“Nay. but, rogue,” said the Black Knight, “this 
exceedeth thy license. Beware ye tamper not with 
| my patience.” 

“Urge me not with violence, Sir Knight,” said the 
Jester, keeping at a distance from the impatient 
champion, “or Folly will show a clean pair of heels, 
and leave Valor to find out his way through the 
wood as best he may.” 

“Nay, thou hast hit me there,” said the Knight; 
“and, sooth to say, I have little time to jangle with 
thee. Keep the horn an thou wilt, but let us pro¬ 
ceed on our journey.” 

“You will not harm me then?” said Wamba. 

“I tell thee no, thou knave!” 




570 


IVANHOE 


“Ay, but pledge me your knightly word for it,” 
continued Wamba, as he approached with great 
caution. 

“My knightly word I pledge; only come on with 
thy foolish self.” 

“Nay, then, Valor and Folly are once more boon ' 
companions,” said the Jester, coming up frankly to 
the Knight’s side; “but, in truth, I love not such 
buffets as that that you bestowed on the burly Friar, 
when his holiness rolled on the green like a king of 
the nine-pins. And now that Folly wears the horn 
let Valor arouse himself, and shake his mane; for, 
if I mistake not, there are company in yonder brake i 
that are on the lookout for us.” 

“What makes thee judge so?” said the Knight. 

“Because I have twice or thrice noticed the glance 
of a morrion from amongst the green leaves. Had 
they been honest men, they had kept the path. But 
yonder thicket is a choice chapel for the Clerks of 
Saint Nicholas.” 

“By my faith.” said the Knight, closing his visor. 
“I think thou be’st in the right on’t.” 

And in good time did he close it, for three arrows 
flew at the same instant from the suspected spot 
against his head and breast, one of which would 
have penetrated to the brain, had it not been turned 
aside by the steel visor. The other two were averted 
by the gorget, and by the shield which hung around 
his neck. 

< “Thanks, trusty armorer,” said the Knight.— 
“Wamba, let us close with them,”—and he rode 
straight to the thicket. He was met bv six or seven 
men-at-arms, who ran against him with their lances 
at full career. Three of the weapons struck against 
him, and splintered with as little effect as if they 
had been driven against a tower of steel. The Black 





IVANHOE 


571 


Knight’s eyes seemed to flash fire even through the 
aperture of his visor. He raised himself in his stir¬ 
rups with an air of inexpressible dignity, and ex¬ 
claimed, “What means this, my masters!”—The men 
made no other reply than by drawing their swords 
and attacking him on every side, crying, “Die, ty¬ 
rant!” 

“Ha! Saint Edward! Ha! Saint George!” said the 
Black Knight, striking down a man at every invoca¬ 
tion; “have we traitors here?” 

His opponents, desperate as they were, bore back 
from an arm which carried death in every blow, and 
it seemed as if the terror of his single strength was 
about to gain the battle against such odds, when a 
knight, in blue armor, who had hitherto kept him¬ 
self behind the other assailants, spurred forward 
with his lance, and taking aim, not at the rider but 
at the steed, wounded the noble animal mortally.” 

“That was a felon stroke!” exclaimed the Black 
Knight, as the steed fell to the earth bearing his 
rider along with him. 

And at this moment, Wamba winded the bugle, 
for the whole had passed so speedily, that he had 
not time to do so sooner. The sudden sound made 
the murderers bear back once more, and Wamba, 
though so imperfectly weaponed, did not hesitate to 
rush in and assist the Black Knight to rise. 

“Shame on ye, false cowards!” exclaimed he in 
the blue harness, who seemed to lead the assailants, 
“do ye fly from the empty blast of a horn blown 
by a jester?” 

Animated by his words, they attacked the Black 
Knight anew, whose best refuge was now to. place 
his back against an oak, and defend himself with his 

Question : Why would it have been a disgrace to the 

Black Knight to have him sound the horn for aid? 





672 


IVANHOE 


sword. The felon knight, who had taken another 
spear, watching the moment when his formidable 
antagonist was most closely pressed, galloped 
agamst him in hopes to nail him with his lance 
against the tree, when his purpose was again inter¬ 
cepted by Wamba. The Jester, making up by agility 
the want of strength, and little noticed by the men- 
at-arms, who were busied in their more important 
object, hovered on the skirts of the fight, and ef¬ 
fectually checked the fatal career of the Blue 
Knight, by hamstringing his horse with a stroke of 
his sword. Horse and man went to the ground; yet 
the situation of the Knight of the Fetterlock con¬ 
tinued very precarious, as he was pressed close by 
several men completely armed, and began to be fa¬ 
tigued by the violent exertions necessary to defend 
himself on so many points at nearly the same mo¬ 
ment, when a gray-goose shaft suddenly stretched 
on the earth one of the most formidable of his as¬ 
sailants, and a band of yeomen broke forth from 
the glade, headed by Locksley and the jovial Friar, 
who, taking ready and effectual part in the fray, 
soon disposed of the ruffians, all of whom lay on 
the spot dead or mortally wounded. The Black 
Knight thanked his deliverers with a dignity they 
had not observed in his former bearing, which hith¬ 
erto had seemed rather that of a blunt bold soldier, 
than of a person of exalted rank. 

“It concerns me much,” he said, “even before I 
express my full gratitude to my ready friends, to dis¬ 
cover, if I may, who have been my unpr'ovoked 
enemies. Open the visor of that Blue Knight, Wam¬ 
ba, who seems the chief of these villains.” 

The Jester instantly made up to the leader of the 
assassins, who, bruised by his fall, and entangled 


IVANHOE 


573 


under the wounded steed, lay incapable either of 
fight or resistance. 

“Come, valiant sir,” said Wamba, “I must be 
your armorer as well as your equerry—I have dis¬ 
mounted you, and now I will unhelm you.” 

So saying, with no very gentle hand he undid 
the helmet of the Blue Knight, which, rolling to a 
distance on the grass, displayed to the Knight of 
the Fetterlock grizzled locks, and a countenance he 
did not expect to have seen under such circumstances. 

“Waldemar Fitzurse?” he said in astonishment; 
“What could urge one of thy rank and seeming 
worth to so foul an undertaking?” 

“Richard,” said the captive Knight, looking up to 
him, “thou knowest little of mankind, if thou knc*w- 
est not to what ambition and revenge can lead every 
child of Adam.” 

“Revenge!” answered the Black Knight; “I never 
wronged thee.—On me thou hast naught to revenge.” 

“My daughter, Richard, whose alliance thou didst 
scorn—was that no injury to a Norman, whose blood 
is noble as thine own?” 

“Thy daughter?” replied the Black Knight; “a 
proper cause of enmity, and followed up to a bloody 
issue!—Sftand back, my masters, I would speak to 
him alone.—And now, Waldemar Fitzurse, say me 
the truth—confess who set thee on this traitorous 
deed.” 

“Thy father’s son,” answered Waldemar, “who, 
in so doing, did but avenge on thee thy disobedience 
to thy father.” 

Richard’s eyes sparkled with indignation, but 
his better nature overcame it. He pressed his hand 
against his brow, and remained an instant gazing on 

Question: Have you suspected who the Black Knight 
was? 




574 


IVANHOE 


the face of the humbled baron, in whose features 
pride was contending with shame. 

“Thou dost not ask thy life, Waldemar,” said the 
King. 

“He that is in the lion’s clutch,” answered Fitz- 
urse, “knows it were needless.” 

“Take it, then, unasked,” said Richard; “the lion 
preys not on prostrate carcasses.—Take thy life, but 
with this condition, that in three days thou shalt 
leave England, and go to hide thine infamy in thy 
Norman castle, and that thou wilt never mention the 
name of John of Anjou as connected with thy felony. 
If thou art found on English ground after the space 
I have allotted thee, thou diest—or if thou breathest 
aught that can attain the honor of my house, by Saint 
George! not the altar itself shall be a sanctuary. 1 
will hang thee out to feed the ravens, from the very 
pinnacle of thine own castle.—Let this knight have 
a steed, Locksley, for I see your yeomen have caught 
those which were running loose, and let him depart 
unharmed.” 

“But that I judge I listen to a voice whose behests 
must not be disputed,” answered the yeoman, “I 
would send a shaft after the skulking villain that 
should spare him the labor of a long journey.” 

“Thou bearest an English heart, Locksley,” said 
the Black Knight, “and well dost judge thou art the 
more bound to obey my behest—I am Richard of En¬ 
gland !” 

At these words, pronounced in a tone of majesty 
suited to the high rank and no less distinguished 
character of Cceur-de-Lion, the yeomen at once 
kneeled down before him. and at the same time ten¬ 
dered their allegiance, and implored pardon for their 
offenses. 

“Rise, my friends,” said Richard, in a gracious 


IVANHOE 


575 


one, looking on them with a countenance in which 
lis habitual good-humor had already conquered the 
daze of hasty resentment, and whose features re¬ 
amed no mark of the late desperate conflict, except- 
ng the flush arising from exertion,—“Arise,” he 
aid, “my friends!—Your misdemeanors whether 
n forest or field have been atoned by the loyal serv¬ 
ices you rendered my distressed subjects before the 
rails of Torquilstone, and the rescue you have this 
lay afforded to your sovereign. Arise, my liegemen, 
md be good subjects in future.—And thou, brave 
jock: ley-” 

“Call me no longer Locksley, my Liege, but know 
ne under the name, which, I fear, fame hath blown 
;oo widely not to have reached even your royal ears 
;—I am Robin Hood 1 of Sherwood Forest. ” 

“King of Outlaws, and Prince of good fellows!” 
iaid the King, “who hath not heard a name that has 
>een borne as far as Palestine! But be assured, 
)rave Outlaw, that no deed done in our absence, and 
n the turbulent times to which it hath given rise, 
shall be remembered to thy disadvantage.” 

“True says the proverb,” said Wamba, interposing 
lis word, but with some abatement of his usual petu- 
ance,— 


“ ‘When the cat is away. 

The mice will play’.” 

“What, Wamba; art thou there?” said Richard; 

1 “From the ballads of Robin Hood we learn that this 
celebrated outlaw, when in disguise, sometimes assumed 
he name of Locksley, from a village where he was born, 
nit where situated we are not distinctly told.”—Scott. 

Question : Has Robin Hood been true to the character 
rou always had in mind as Robin Hood? 

Question: How did Richard punish his assailants? 





576 


IVANIIOE 


“I have been so long of hearing thy voice, I thought 
thou hadst taken flight.” 

“I take flight!” said Wamba; “when do you ever 
find Folly separated from Valor? There lies the 
trophy of my sword, that good gray gelding, whom I 
heartily wish upon his legs again, conditioning 1 his 
master lay there houghed in his place. It is true, I 
gave a little ground at first, for a motley jacket does 
not brook 2 lance-heads, as a steel doublet will. But 
if I fought not at sword’s point, you will grant me 
that I sounded the onset.” 

“And to good purpose, honest Wamba,” replied 
the King. “Thy good service shall not be forgotten.” 

“ Confiteor! 3 Confiteor!” —exclaimed, in a submissive 
tone, a voice near the King’s side—“my Latin will 
carry me no farther—but I confess my deadly trea¬ 
son, and pray leave to have absolution before I am led 
to execution!” 

Richard looked around, and beheld the jovial Friar 
on his knees, telling his rosary, while his quarter- 
staff. which had not been idle during the skirmish, 
lay on the grass beside him. His countenance was 
gathered so as he thought might best express the 
most profound contrition, his eyes being turned 
up, and the corners of his mouth drawn down, as 
Wamba expressed it, like the tassels at the mouth 
of a purse. Yet this demure affectation of extreme , 
penitence was whimsically belied by a ludicrous 
meaning which lurked in his huge features, and 
seemed to pronounce his fear and repentance alike 
hypocritical. 

“For what art thou cast down, mad Priest?” said 
Richard; “art thou afraid thy diocesan should learn 


stipulating that. 
2 Tolerate. 

3 I confe'ss. 



IVANHOE 


577 


how truly thou dost serve Our Lady and Saint Dun- 
stan?—Tush, man! fear it not; Richard of England 
betrays no secrets that pass over the flagon.” 

“Nay, most gracious sovereign,” answered the 
Hermit, (well known to the curious in penny- 
listories of Robin Hood, by the name of Friar Tuck), 
“it is not the crosier I fear, but the scepter.—Alas! 
that my sacrilegious fist should ever have been ap¬ 
plied to the ear of the Lord’s anointed!” 

“Ha! ha!” said Richard, “sits the wind there? 
—In truth I had forgotten the buffet, though mine 
ear sung after it for a whole day. But if the cuff 
[was fairly given, I will be judged by the good men 
around, if it was not as well repaid—or, if thou 
thinkest I still owe thee aught, and will stand forth 
for another counterbuff—” 

“By no means,” replied Friar Tuck; “I had mine 
own returned, and with usury—may. your Majesty 
ever pay your debts as fully!” 

“If I could do so with cuffs,” said the King, “my 
creditors should have little reason to complain of an 
empty exchequer.” 

“And yet,” said the Friar, resuming his demure 
hypocritical countenance, “I know not what penance 
I ought to perform for that most sacrilegious 

blow!”— 

“Speak no more" of it, brother,” said the King; 
“after having stood so many cuffs from Paynims and 
misbelievers, I were void of reason to quarrel with 
the buffet of a clerk so holy as he of. Copmanhurst. 
Yet, mine honest Friar, I think it would be best both 
for the church and thyself, that I should procure a 
license to unfrock thee, and retain thee as a yeoman 
of our guard, serving in care of our person, as 
formerly in attendance upon the altar of Saint 
Dun&tan.” 



578 


Ivan hoe 


“My Liege,” said the Friar, “I humbly crave your 
pardon;, and you would readily grant my excuse, 
did you but know how the sin of laziness has beset 
me. Saint Dunstan—may he be gracious to us!— 
stands quiet in his niche, though I should forget my 
onions in killing a fat buck—I stay out of my cell 
sometimes a night, doing I wot not what—Saint 
Dunstan never complains—a quiet master he is, and 
a peaceful, as ever was made of wood.—But to be 
a yeoman in attendance on my sovereign the King 
—the honor is great, doubtless—yet, if I were but to 
step aside to comfort a widow in one corner, or to 
kill a deer in another, it would be, ‘Where is the dog 
Priest?’ says one. ‘Who has seen the accursed 
Turk?’ says another. ‘The unfrocked villain de¬ 
stroys more venison than half the country besides,’ 
says one keeper; ‘And is hunting after every shy doe 
in the country!’ quoth a second.—In fine, good my 
Liege I pray you to leave me as you found me; or, 
if in aught you desire to extend your benevolence to 
me, that I may be considered as the poor Clerk of 
Saint Dunstan’s cell in Copmanhurst, to whom any 
small donation will be most thankfully acceptable.” 

“I understand thee,” said the King, “and the Holy 
Clerk shall have a grant of vert 1 and venison in 
my woods of Wharncliffe. Mark, however, I will but 
assign thee three bucks every season; but if that 
do not prove an apology for thy slaying thirty, I am 
no Christian knight nor true king.” 

“Your Grace may be well assured,” said the Friar, 
“that, with the grace of Saint Dunstan, I shall find 
the way of multiplying your most bounteous gift.” 

“I nothing doubt it, good brother,” said the King; 
“and as venison is but dry food, our cellarer shall 

*The right to cut growing wood and to kill deer in the 
forest. 



IVANHOE 


579 


have orders to deliver to thee a butt of sack, and 
a runlet of Malvoisie, and three hogsheads of ale of 
the first strike, yearly.—If that will not quench thy 
thirst, thou must come to court, and become ac¬ 
quainted with my butler.” 

I “But for Saint Dunstan?” said the Friar— 

“A cope, a stole, and an altar-cloth shalt thou 
also have,” continued the King, crossing himself.— 
(“But we may not turn our game into earnest, lest 
31od punish us for thinking more on our follies than 
?n his honor and worship.” 

“I will answer for my patron,” said the'Priest, 
joyously. 

I “Answer for thyself, Friar,” said King Richard, 
something sternly; but immediately stretching out 
bis hand to the Hermit, the latter, somewhat 
jabashed, bent his knee, and saluted it. “Thou dost 
less honor to my extended palm than to my clenched 
fist,” Said the Monarch; “thou didst only kneel to 
the one, and to the other didst prostrate thyself/ 7 

But the Friar, afraid perhaps of again giving of¬ 
fense by continuing the conversation in too jocose 
a style—a false step to be particularly guarded 
against by those who converse with monarchs— 
bowed profoundly, and fell into the rear. 

At the same time, two additional personages ap¬ 
peared on the scene. 





CHAPTER XLI 


All hail to the lordlings of high degree, 

Who live not more happy, though greater than we: 

Our pastimes to see, 

Under every green tree, 

In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be. 

Macdonald. 

The newcomers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the 
Prior of Botolph’s palfrey, and Gurth, who attended 
him, on the Knight’s own war-horse. The astonish¬ 
ment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw 
his master besprinkled with blood, and six or seven 
dead bodies lying around in the little glade in which 
the battle had taken place. Nor was he less sur¬ 
prised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan 
attendants, the outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the 
forest, and a perilous retinue therefore for a prince. 
He hesitated whether to address the King as the 
Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to de¬ 
mean himself towards him. Richard saw his em¬ 
barrassment. 

“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard 
Plantagenet as himself, since thou seest him in the 
company of true English hearts, although it may be 
they have been urged a few steps aside by warm 
English blood.” 

“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Out¬ 
law, stepping forward, “my assurances can add 
nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me say 
somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered 
much, he hath not truer subjects than those who 
now stand around him.” 

“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, 
“since thou art of the number,—But what mean 



IVANHOE 


581 


these marks of death and danger? these slain men, 
and the bloody armor of my Prince?” 

“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the 
King; “but, thanks to these brave men, treason hath 
met its meed.—But, now, I bethink me, thou too art 
a traitor,” said Richard, smiling; “a most disobe¬ 
dient traitor; for were not our orders positive, that 
jthou shouldst repose thyself at Saint Botolph’s until 
thy wound was healed?” 

“It is healed,” said Ivanhoe; “it is not of more 
consequence than the scratch of a bodkin. But why, 
oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex the hearts of 
your faithful servants, and expose your life by lonely 
journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no 
more value than that of a mere knight-errant, who 
has no interest on earth but what lance and sword 
may procure him?” 

“And Richard Plantagenet,” 1 said the King, “de¬ 
sires no more fame than his good lance and sword 
may acquire him—and Richard Plantagenet is 
prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his 
good sword, and his good arm to speed, than if he 
led to battle an host of an hundred thousand armed 
men.” 

“But your kingdom, my Liege,” said Ivanhoe, 
“your kingdom is threatened with dissolution and 
civil war—your subjects menaced with every species 
of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of 
those dangers which it is your daily pleasure to in¬ 
cur, and from which you have but this moment nar¬ 
rowly escap*ed.” 

“Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?” an- 
ewered Richard, impatiently; “I tell thee, Sir Wil¬ 
fred, the best of them are most willing to repay my 

Plantagenet was the family name applied to the House 
Df Anjou. 





582 


IVANHOE 


follies in kind.—For example, my very faithful ser¬ 
vant, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, will not obey my posi¬ 
tive commands, and yet reads his king a homily, 
Decause he does not walk exactly by his advice. 
Which of us has most reason to upbraid the other? 
—Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred. The time I 
have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment, is, 
as I explained to thee at Saint Botolph’s, necessary 
to give my friends and faithful nobles time to as¬ 
semble their forces, that when Richard's return is 
announced, he should be at the head of such a force 
as enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue- 
the meditated treason, without even unsheathing a 
sword. Estoteville and Bohun will not be strong 
enough to move forward to York for twenty-four 
hours. I must have news of Salisbury from the 
south; and of Beauchamp, in Warwickshire; and of 
Multon and Percy in the north. The Chancellor must 
make sure of London. Too sudden an appearance 
would subject me to dangers, other than my lance 
and sword, though backed by the bow of bold Robin, 
or the quarter-staff of Friar Tuck, and the horn oi 
the sage Wamba, may be able to rescue me from." 

Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how 
vain it was to contend with the wild spirit of chival¬ 
ry which so often impelled his master upon dangers 
which he might easily have avoided, or rather, which | 
it was unpardonable in him to have sought out. The 
youpg knight sighed, therefore, and held his peace;! 
while Richard, rejoiced at having silenced his coun¬ 
selor, though his heart acknowledged the justice oi 
the charge he had brought against him, went on ir 
conversation with Robin Hood.—“King of Out 
laws,” he said, “have you no refreshment to offer tc 
your brother sovereign? for these dead knaves have 
found me both in exercise and appetite.” 







IVANHOE 


583 


“In troth,” replied the Outlaw, “for I scorn to lie 
to your Grace, our larder is chiefly supplied with—” 
He stopped, and was somewhat embarrassed. 

“With venison, I suppose?” said Richard, gayly; 
“better food at need there can be none—and truly, 
if a king will not remain at home and slay his own 
game, methinks he should not brawl too loud if he 
finds it killed to his hand.” 

“if your Grace, then,” said Robin, “will again 
honor with your presence one of Robin Hood’s places 
of rendezvous, the venison shall not be lacking; and 
i a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of reasonably 
, good wine, to relish it withal.” 

The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by 
the buxom Monarch, more happy, probably, in his 
chance meeting with Robin Hood and his foresters, 
than he would have been in again assuming his royal 
state, and presiding over a splendid circle of peers 
and nobles. Novelty in society and adventure were 
the zest of life to Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and it had 
its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encoun¬ 
tered and surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the 
brilliant but useless character of a knight of ro¬ 
mance was in a great measure realized and revived; 
and the personal glory which he acquired by his own 
deeds of arms, was far more dear to his excited 
imagination, than that which a course of policy and 
wisdom would have spread around his government 
'Accordingly, his reign was like the course ox a bril¬ 
liant rapid meteor, which shoots along the face of 
heaven, shedding around an unnecessary and por¬ 
tentous light, which is instantly swallowed up by 
universal darkness; his feats of chivalry furnishing 
themes for bards and minstrels, but affording none 

Question : Why was Locksley embarrassed when Rich¬ 
ard asked for something to eat? 




584 


Ivan hoe 


of those solid benefits to his country on which his¬ 
tory loves to pause and hold up as an example to 
posterity. But in his present company Richard 
showed to the greatest imaginable advantage. He 
was gay, good-humored, and fond of manhood in 
every rank of life. 

Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was 
hastily prepared for the King of England, sur¬ 
rounded by men outlaws to his government, but who 
now formed his court and his guard. As the flagon 
went round, the rough foresters soon lost their awe 
for the presence of Majesty. The song and the jest 
were exchanged—the stories of former deeds were 
told with advantage; and at length, and while boast¬ 
ing of their successful infraction of the laws, no one 
recollected they were speaking in presence of their 
natural guardian. The merry King, nothing heeding 
his dignity any more than his company, laughed, 
quaffed, and jested among the jolly band. The natu¬ 
ral and rough sense of Robin Hood led him to be 
desirous that the scene should be closed ere any¬ 
thing should occur to disturb its harmony, the more 
especially that he observed Ivanhoe’s brow clouded 
with anxiety. ‘'We are honored,” he said to Ivanhoe, 
apart, “by the presence of our gallant sovereign; 
yet I would not that he dallied with time, which the 
circumstances of his kingdom may render precious.” 

“It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin Hood, > 
said Wilfred, apart; “and know, moreover, that they 
who jest with Majesty, even in its gayest mood, are 
But toying with the lion's whelp, which, on slight 
provocation, uses both fangs and claws.” 

“You have touched the very cause of my fear,” 
said the Outlaw: “my men are rough by practice 
and nature, the King is hasty as well as good- 
humored ; nor know I how soon cause of offense may 


IVANHOE 


585 


arise, or how warmly it may be received—it is time 
this revel were broken off.” 

It must be by your management then, gallant 
yeoman,” said Ivanhoe; “for each hint I have 
essayed to give him serves only to induce him to 
prolong it.” 

“Must I so soon risk the pardon and favor of my 
Sovereign?” said Robin Hood, pausing for an in¬ 
stant; “but by Saint Christopher, it shall be so. I 
were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for his 
good.—Here, Scatnlock, get thee behind yonder 
thicket, and wind me a Norman blast on thy bugle, 
and without an instant’s delay, on peril of your 
life” 

Scathlock obeyed his captain and in less than five 
minutes the revelers were startled by the sound of 
his horn. 

“it is the bugle of Malvoisin,” said the Miller, 
starting to his feet, and seizing his bow. The Friar 
dropped the flagon, and grasped his quarter-staff. 
Wamba stopped short in the midst of a jest, and 
betook himself to sword and target. All the others 
stood to their weapons. 

Men of their precarious course of life change 
readily from the banquet to the battle; and, to 
RicKard, the exchange seemed but a succession of 
Pleasure. He called for his helmet and the mco T 
cumbrous part? of his armor, which he had laii 
aside; and while Gurth was putting them on, he laid 
his strict injunctions on Wilfred, under pain of his 
highest displeasure, not to engage in the skirmish 
which he supposed was approaching. 

“Thou hast fought for me an hundred times, Wil¬ 
fred,—and I have seen it. Thou shalt this day look 
on, and see how Richard will fight for his friend and 
liegeman.” 


586 


IVANHOE 


In the meantime, Robin Hood had sent off several 
of his followers in different directions, as if to 
reconnoiter the enemy; and when he saw the com-j 
pany effectually broken up, he approached Richard, 
who was now completely armed, and, kneeling down 
on one knee, craved pardon of his Sovereign. 

“For what, good yeoman ?” said Richard, some¬ 
what impatiently. “Have we not already granted 
thee a full pardon for all transgressions? Thinkest 
thou our word is a feather, to be blown backward 
and forward between us? Thou canst not have had 
time to commit any new offense since that time?” ! 

“Ay, but I have though,” answered the yeoman, 
“if it be an offense to deceive my prince for his own 
advantage. The bugle you have heard was none of 
Malvoisin’s, but blown by my direction, to break off 
the banquet, lest it trenched upon hours of dearer 
import than to be thus dallied with.” 

He then rose from his knee, folded his arms on 
his bosom, and in a manner rather respectful than 
submissive, awaited the answer of the King,—like | 
one who is conscious he may have given offense, yet 
is confident in the rectitude of his motive. The I 
blood rushed in anger to the countenance of Rich¬ 
ard ; but it was the first transient emotion, and his 
sense of justice instantly subdued it. 

“The King of Sherwood,” he said, “grudges his 
venison and his wine-flask to the King of England? 
It is well, bold Robin!—but when you come to see 
me in merry London, I trust to be a less niggard 
host. Thou art right, however, good fellow. Let us 
therefore to horse and away—Wilfred has been im¬ 
patient this hour. Tell me, bold Robin, hast thou 
never a friend in thy band, who, not content with 
advising, will needs direct thy motions, and look mis¬ 
erable when thou dost presume to act for thyself?” 




IVANHOE 


587 


“Such a one/’ said Robin, “is my lieutenant, Lit¬ 
tle John, who is even now absent on an expedition 
as tar as tfie borders of Scotland; and I will own to 
your Majesty, that I am sometimes displeased by 
the freedom of his councils—but, when I think twice, 

I cannot be long angry with one who can have no 
motive for his anxiety save zeal for his master’s 
service.” 

“Thou art right, good yeoman,” answered Richard; 
“and if I had Ivanhoe, on the one hand, to give grave 
advice, and recommend it by the sad gravity of 
his brow, and thee, on the other, to trick me into 
what thou thinkest my own good, I should have as 
little the freedom of mine own will as any king in 
Christendom or Heathenesse.—But come, sirs, let us 
merrily on to Coningsburgh, and think no more on’t.” 

Robin Hood assured them that he had detached a 
party in the direction of the road they were to pass, 
who would not fail to discover and apprise them of 
any secret ambuscade; and that he had little doubt 
they would find the ways secure, or, if otherwise, 
would receive such timely notice of the danger as 
would enable them to fall back on a strong troop of 
archers, with which he himself proposed to follow 
on ttie same route. 

The wise and attentive precautions adopted for his 
safety touched Richard’s feelings, and removed any % 
slight grudge which he might retain on account of 
the deception the Outlaw Captain had practiced up 
on him. He once more extended his hand to Robin 
Hood, assured him of his full pardon and future 
favor, as well as his firm resolution to restrain the 
tyrannical exercise of the forest rights and other op¬ 
pressive laws, by which so many English yeomen 
were driven into a state of rebellion. But Richard s 
good intentions towards the bold Outlaw were frus- 




588 


IVANHOE 


trated by the King’s untimely death, and the Charter 
of the Forest 1 was extorted from the unwilling hands 
of King John when he succeeded to his heroic 
brotfter. As for the rest of Robin Hood’s career, as 
well as the tale of his treacherous death, they are 
to be found m those black-letter garlands 2 once sold 
at the low and easy rate of one half-penny, 

“Now cheaply purchased at their weight in gold.” 

The Outlaw’s opinion proved true; and the King 
attended by Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, arrived, 
without any interruption, within view of the Castle 
of Coningsburgh, while the sun was yet in the hori¬ 
zon. 

There are few more beautiful or striking scenes 
in England, than are presented by the vicinity of 
this ancient Saxon fortress. The soft and gentle 
river Don sweeps through an amphitheater, in which 
cultivation is richly blenched with woodland, and on 
a mount, ascending from the river, well defended by 
walls and ditches, rises this ancient edifice, which, 
as its Saxon name implies, was, previous to the Con¬ 
quest, a royal residence of the kings of England. 
The outer walls have probably been added by the 
Normans, but the inner keep bears token of very 
great antiquity. It is situated on a mount at one an¬ 
gle of the inner court, and forms a complete circle 
of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter. The wall is 
of immense thickness, and is propped or defended 
by six huge external buttresses which project from 
the circle, and rise up against the sides of the tower 
as if to strengthen or to support it. These massive 
buttresses are solid when they arise from the 

lr Fhis may have been the Magna Carta, or it may have 
been an English statute of 1297. 

2 Ballads in old English type. 






IVANHOE 


589 


ioundation, and a good way higher up; but are hol- 
owed out towards the top, and terminate in a sort 
of turret communicating with the interior of the 
teep itself. The distant appearance of this huge 
ouilding, with these singular accompaniments, is as 
interesting to the lovers of the picturesque, as the 
interior of the castle is to the eager antiquary, 
whose imagination it carries back to the days of 
;he heptarchy. A barrow, in the vicinity of the 
:astle, is pointed out as the tomb of the memorable 
Hengist; and various monuments of great antiquity 
and curiosity, are shown in the neighboring church¬ 
yard. 

When Coeur-de-Lion and his retinue approached 
this rude yet stately building, it was not, as at pres¬ 
ent, surrounded by external fortifications. The Sax- 
Ion architect had exhausted his art in rendering the 
:main keep defensible, and there was no other cir- 
cumvallation than a rude barrier of palisades. 

A huge black banner, which floated from the top 
of the tower, announced that the obsequies of the 
late owner were still in the act of being solemnized. 
It bore no emblem of the deceased’s birth or quality, 
for armorial bearings were then a novelty among 
the Norman chivalry themselves, and were totally 
unknown to the Saxons. But above the gate was 
another banner, on which the figure*'of a white horse, 
rudely painted, indicated the nation and rank of 
the deceased, by the well-known symbol of Hengist 
and his Saxon warriors. 

All around the castle was a scene of busy commo¬ 
tion; for such funeral banquets were times of gen¬ 
eral and profuse hospitality, which not only every 
lone who could claim the most distant connection 
with the deceased, but all passengers whatsoever, 
were invited to partake. The wealth and cense- 



590 


IVANHOE 


quence of the deceased Athelstane occasioned this 
custom to be observed in the fullest extent. 

Numerous parties, therefore, were seen ascend¬ 
ing and descending the hill on which the castle was 
situated; and when the King and his attendants en¬ 
tered the open and unguarded gates of the external 
barrier, the space within presented a scene not eas¬ 
ily reconciled with the cause of the assemblage. In 
one place cooks were toiling to roast huge oxen and 
fat sheep; in another, hogsheads of ale were set 
abroach, to be drained at the freedom of all comers. 
Groups of every description were to be seen devour¬ 
ing the food and swallowing the liquor thus aban¬ 
doned to their discretion. The naked Saxon serf was 
drowning the sense of his half-year’s hunger and 
thirst, in one day of gluttony and drunkenness— 
the more pampered burgess and guild-brother was 
eating his morsel with gust, or curiously criticising 
the quantity of the malt and the skill of the brewer. 
Some few of the poorer Norman gentry might also 
be seen, distinguished by their shaven chins and 
short cloaks, and not less so by their ..keeping to¬ 
gether, and looking with great scorn on the whole 
solemnity, even while condescending to avail them¬ 
selves of the good cheer which was so liberally sup¬ 
plied. 

Mendicants were of course assembled by the score 
together with strolling soldiers returned from Pales¬ 
tine (according to their own account at least), ped¬ 
lars were (displaying their wares, traveling me - 1 
chanics were inouiring after employment, and wan¬ 
dering palmers, hedge-priests, Saxon minstrels, and 
Welsh bards, were muttering prayers, and extract¬ 
ing mistimed dirges from their harps, crowds, and 


Ivan hoe 


591 


•otes. 1 One sent forth the praises of Athelstane in 
i doleful panegyric; .another, in a Saxon genealog- 
cal poem, rehearsed the uncouth and harsh names 
>f his noble ancestry. Jesters and jugglers were 
'lot wanting, nor was the occasion of the assembly 
3uppo:ed to render the exercise of their profession 
ndecorous or improper. Indeed, the ideas of the 
Saxons on these occasions were as natural as they 
were rude. If sorrow was thirsty, there was drink— 
if hungry, there was food—if it sunk down upon 
and saddened the heart, here were the means sup¬ 
plied of mirth, or at least of amusement. Nor did 
;he assistants scorn to avail themselves of those 
means of consolation, although, every now and then, 
as if suddenly recollecting the cau:e which had 
brought them together, the men groaned in un’son, 
while the females, of whom many were present, 
raised up their voices and shrieked for very woe. 

Such was the scene in the castle-yard at Conings- 
burgh when it was entered by Richard and h’s fol¬ 
lowers. The seneschal or steward deigned not to 
take notice of the group 3 of inferior guests who 
were perpetually entering and withdrawing, unless 
so far as was necessary to preserve order; neverthe¬ 
less he was struck by the good mien of the Monarch 
and Ivanhoe. more especially as he imagined the 
features of the latter were familiar to him. Be¬ 
sides, the approach of two knights, for such thmr 
dress bespoke them, was a rare event at a Saxon 
solemnity, and could not but be regarded as a sort 
of honor to the deceased and his family. And in 
ihis sable dress, and holding in his hand his white 

’The crowth. or crowd, was a species of violin. The rote, 
a sort of guitar, or rather hurdy-gurdy, the strings of which 
were managed by a wheel, from which the instrument took 
its name. (Scott’s note.) 




592 


IVANHOE 


wand of office, this important personage made waj 
though the miscellaneous assemblage of guests 
thus conducting Richard and Ivanhoe to the en 
trance of the tower. Gurth and Wamba speedily 
found acquaintances in the courtyard, nor presumec 
to intrude themselves any farther until their pres 
ence should be required. 




CHAPTER XLII 


1 found them winding of Marcello’s corpse. 

And there was such a solemn melody, 

Twixt doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,— 

Such as old grandames, watching by the dead, 

Are wont to outwear the night with. 

Old Play. 

The mode of entering the great tower of Conings- 
mrgh Castle is very peculiar, and partakes of the 
’tide simplicity of the early times in which it was 
erected. A flight of steps, so deep and narrow as to 
)e almost precipitous, leads up to a low portal in the 
south side of the tower, by which the adventurous 
mtiquary may still, or at least could a few years 
since, gain access to a small stair within the thick- 
less of the main wall of the tower, which leads up to 
;he third story of the building,—the two lower being 
dungeons or vaults, which neither receive air nor 
Sight, save by a square hole in the third story, with 
which they seemed to have communicated by a lad¬ 
der. The access to the upper apartments in the tow- 
sr, which consist in all of four stories, is given by 
stairs which are carried up through the external 
buttresses. 

By this difficult and complicated entrance, the 
good King Richard, followed by his faithful Ivanhoe, 
was ushered into the round apartment which oc¬ 
cupies the whole of the third story from the ground. 
Wilfred, by the difficulties of the ascent, gained time 
to muffle his face in his mantle, as it had been held 
expedient that he should not present himself to his 
father until the King should give him the signal. 

There were assembled in this apartment, around 
a large oaken table, about a dozen of the most distin¬ 
guished representatives of the Saxon families in the 




594 


Ivan hoe 


adjacent counties. They were all old, or, at least 
elderly men; for the younger race, to the great dis¬ 
pleasure of the seniors, had, like Ivanhoe, broken 
down many of the barriers which separated for half 
a century the Norman victors from the vanquished 
Saxons. The downcast and sorrowful looks of these 
venerable men, their silence and their mournful 
posture, formed a strong contrast to the levity of the; 
revelers on the outside of the castle. Their gray 
locks and long full beards, together with their an¬ 
tique tunics and loose black mantles, suited well 
with the singular and rude apartment in which they 
were seated, and gave the appearance of a band of 
aneient worshipers of Woden, recalled to life to 
mourn over the decay of their national glory. 

Cedric, seated in equal rank among his country¬ 
men, seemed yet, by common consent, to act as chief 
of the assembly. Upon the entrance of Richard 
(only known to him as the valorous Knight of the 
Fetterlock) he arose gravely, and gave him welcome 
by the ordinary salutation, Waes had, raising at the 
same time a goblet to his head. The King, no 
stranger to the customs of his English subjects, re¬ 
turned the greeting with the appropriate words," 
Drink had, and partook of a cup which was handed 
to him by the sewer. The same courtesy was offered 
to Ivanhoe, who pledged his father in silence, supply¬ 
ing the usual speech by an inclination of his head, 
lest his voice should have been recognized. 

When this introductory ceremony was performed, 
Cedric arose, and, extending his hand to Richard, 
conducted him into a small and very rude chapel, 
which was excavated, as it were, out of one of the 
external buttresses. As there was no opening, sav¬ 
ing a very narrow loophole, the place would have 
been nearly quite dark but for two flambeaux or 



IVANHOE 


595 


torches, which showed, by a red and smoky light, the 
jarched roof and naked walls, the rude altar of stone, 
•and the crucifix of the same material. 

Before this altar was placed a bier, and on each 
[side of this bier kneeled three priests, who told their 
[ beads, and muttered their prayers, with the greatest 
signs of external devotion. For this service a splen¬ 
did soul-scat was paid to the convent of Saint Ed¬ 
mund’s by the mother of the deceased; and, that it 
(might be fully deserved, the whole brethren, saving 
the lame Sacristan, 1 had transferred themselves to 
Coningsburgh, where, while six of their number 
were constantly on guard in the performance of di¬ 
vine rites by the bier of Athelstane, the others 
failed not to take their share of the refreshments 
, and amusements which went on at the castle. In 
maintaining this pious watch and ward, the good 
monks were particularly careful not to interrupt 
their hymns for an instant, least Zernebock, the an¬ 
cient Saxon Apollyon, 2 should lay his clutches on 
the departed Athlestane. Nor were they less care¬ 
ful to prevent any unhallowed layman from touching 
the pall, which, having been that used at the fu¬ 
neral of Saint Edmund, was liable to be desecrated, 
if handled by the profane. If, m truth, these at¬ 
tentions could be of any use to the deceased, he 
had some right to expect them at. the hands of the 
brethren of Saint Edmund’s, since, besides a dozen 
mancuses 3 of gold paid down as the soul-ransom, 
the mother of Atjielstane had announced her inten¬ 
tion of endowing that foundation with the better, 
part of the lands of the deceased, in order to main- 

lr riie officer in charge of the room where all the sacred 
vessels and vestments were kept. 

2 Angel of the bottomless pit. 

3 Angld-Saxon coin worth about sixty-one cents. 







596 


IVANHOE 


tain perpetual prayers for his soul, and that of her 
departed husband. 

Richard and Wilfred followed the Saxon Cedric 
into the apartment of death, where, as their guide 
pointed with solemn air to the untimely bier of 
Athlestane, they followed his example in devoutly 
cros:ing themselves, and muttering a brief prayer 
for the weal of the departed soul. 

This act of pious charity performed, Cedric again 
motioned them to follow him, gliding over the stone 
floor with a noiseless tread; and, after ascending a 
few steps, opened with great caution the door of a 
small oratory, which adjoined to the chapel. It was 
about eight feet square, hollowed, like the chapel 
itself, out of the thickness of the wall; and the loop¬ 
hole, which enlightened it, being to the west, and 
widening considerably as it sloped inward, a beam 
of the setting sun found its way into its dark recess, 
and showed a female of a dignified mien, and whose 
countenance retained the marked remains of ma¬ 
jestic beauty. Her long mourning robes and her 
flowing wimple of black cypress enhanced the white¬ 
ness of her skin, and the beauty of her light-colored 
and flowing tresses, which time had neither thinned 
nor mingled with silver. Her countenance expressed 
the deepest sorrow that is consistent with resigna¬ 
tion. On the stone table before her stood a crucifix 
of ivory, beside which was laid a missal, having its 
pa^es richly illuminated, and its boards adorned 
with clasps of gold, and bosses of the same precious 
metal. 

‘Noble Edith,” said Cedric, after having stood a 
moment silent, as if to give Richard and Wilfred . 
time to look upon the lady of the mansion, “these 
are worthy strangers, come to take a part in thv sor¬ 
rows. And this, in especial, is the valiant Knight 


Ivan hoe 


597 


who fought so bravely for the deliverance of him 
from whom we this day mourn.” 

“His bravery has my thanks,” returned the lady; 

I “although it be the will of Heaven that it should be 
displayed in vain. I thank, too, his courtesy, and 
j that of his companion, which hath brought them 
hither to behold the widow of Adeling, the mother 
of AtheLtane, in her deep hour of sorrow and lam- 
j entation. To your care, kind kinsman, I intrust them, 
[satisfied that they will want no hospitality which 
these sad walls can yet afford.” 

The guests bowed deeply to the mourning parent, 
and withdrew with their hospitable guide. 

Another winding stair conducted them to an apart¬ 
ment of the same size with that which they had first 
entered, occupying indeed the same story immedi¬ 
ately above. From this room, ere yet the door was 
opened, proceeded a low and melancholy strain of 
vocal music. When they entered, they found them¬ 
selves in the presence of about twenty matrons 
and maidens of distinguished Saxon lineage. Four 
maidens, Rowena leading the choir, raised a hymn 
for the soul of the deceased, of which we have only 
been able to decipher two or three stanzas:— 

Dust unto clust. 

To this all must; 

The tenant hath resign’d 
The faded form 
To waste and worm — 

Corruption claims her kind. 

Through paths unknown 
Thy soul hath flown, 

To seek the realms of woe, 

Where fiery pain 
Shall purge the stain 
Of actions done below. 



598 


IVANHOE 


In that sad place, 

By Mary’s grace, 

Brief may thy dwelling be! 

Till prayers and alms, 

And holy psalms, 

Shall set the captive free. 

While this dirge was sung, in a low and melan¬ 
choly tone, by the female choristers, the others were 
divided into two bands, of which one was enagaged 
in bedecking, with such embroidery as their skill and 
taste could compass, a large silken pall, destined to 
cover the bier of Athelstane, while the others busied 
themselves in selecting, from baskets of flowers 
placed before them, garlands, which they intended 
for the same mournful purpose. The behavior of the 
maidens was decorous, if not marked with deep af¬ 
fliction; but now and then a whisper or a smile 
called forth the rebuke of the severer matrons, and 
here and there might be seen a damsel more inter¬ 
ested in endeavoring to find out how her mourning- 
robe became her, than in the dismal ceremony for 
which they were preparing. Neither was this pro¬ 
pensity (if we must needs confess the truth) at all 
diminished by the appearance of two strange 
knights, which occasioned some looking up, peeping, 
and whispering. Rowena alone, too proud to be 
vain, paid her greeting to her deliverer with a grace¬ 
ful courtesy. Her demeanor was serious, but not de¬ 
jected; and it may be doubted whether thoughts of 
Ivanhoe, and of the uncertainty of his fate, did not 
claim as great a share in her gravity as the death 
of her kinsman. 

To Cedric, however, who, as we have observed, 
was not remarkably clear-sighted on such occasions, 
the sorrow of his ward seemed so much deeper than 
any of the other maidens, that he deemed it proper 




IVANHOE 


599 


to whisper the explanation.—“She was the affianced 
bride of the noble Athlestane.”—It may be doubted 
whether this communication went a far way to in¬ 
crease Wilfred’s disposition to sympathize with the 
mourners of Coningsburgh. 

Having thus formally introduced the guests to the 
different chambers in which the obsequies of Athel- 
stane were celebrated under different forms, Cedric 
conducted them into a small room, destined, as he 
informed them, for the exclusive accommodation of 
honorable guests, whose more slight connection with 
the deceased might render them unwilling to join 
those who were immediately affected by the unhappy 
event. He assured them of every accommodation, 
and was about to withdraw when the Black Knight 
took his hand. 

“I crave to remind you, noble Thane,” he said, 
“that when we last parted, you promised, for the 
service I had the fortune to render you, to grant me 
a boon.” 

“It is granted ere named, noble Knight,” said Ced¬ 
ric; “yet, at this sad moment-” 

“Of that also,” said the King, T have bethought 
me—but my time is brief—neither does it seem to 
me unfit, that, when closing the grave on the noble 
Athelstane, we should deposit therein certain preju¬ 
dices and hasty opinions.” 

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock,” said Cedric, col¬ 
oring, and interrupting the King in his turn, “I 
trust your boon regards yourself and no other; for 
in that which concerns the honor of my house, it is 
scarce fitting that a stranger should mingle.” 

“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the King, mildly, 
“unless in so far as you will admit me to have an 
interest. As yet you have known me but as the 



600 


lVANHOE 


Black Knight of the Fetterlock—know me now as 
Richard Plantagenet.” 

“Richard of Anjou!” exclaimed Cedric, stepping 
backward with the utmost astonishment. 

“No, noble Cedric—Richard of England!—whose 
deepest interest—whose deepest wish, is to see her 
sons united with each other.—And, how now, worthy 
Thane! hast thou no knee for thy prince?” 

“To Norman blood,” said Cedric, “it hath never 
bended.” 

“Reserve thine homage then,” said the Monarch, 
“until I shall prove my right to it by my equal pro¬ 
tection of Normans and English.” 

“Prince,” answered Cedric, “I have ever done 
justice to thy bravery and thy worth—nor am I ig¬ 
norant of thy claim to the crown through thy de¬ 
scent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling; and 
daughter to Malcom of Scotland. But Matilda, 
though of the loyal Saxonblood, was not the heir to 
the monarchy.” 

“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble 
Thane,” said Richard, calmly; “but I will bid thee 
look around thee, and see where thou wilt find an¬ 
other to be put into the scale against it.” 

“And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell 
me so?” said Cedric—“to upbraid me with the ruin 
of my race, ere the grave has closed o’er the last 
scion of Saxon royalty!”—His countenance dark¬ 
ened as he spoke.—“It was boldly—it was rashly 
done!” 

“Not so, by the holy rood!” replied the King; “it 
was done in the frank confidence which one brave 
man may repose in another, without a shadow of 
danger.” 

“Thou sayest well, Sir King—for King I own thou 
art, and wilt be, despite of my feeble opposition.— 





Ivan hoe 


601 


I dare not take the only mode to prevent it, though 
thou hast placed the strong temptation within my 
reach!” 

“And now to my boon,” said the King, “which 1 
ask not with one jot the less confidence, that thou 
hast refused to acknowledge my lawful sovereignty. 

1 require of thee, as a man of thy word, on pain of 
being held faithless, man-sworn, and nidering, to 
forgive and receive to thy paternal affection the 
good knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe. In this reconcilia¬ 
tion thou wilt own I have an interest—the happiness 
of my friend, and the quelling of dissension among 
my faithful people.” 

“And this is Wilfred!” said Cedric, pointing to his 
| son. 

My father!—my father! Said Ivanhoe, prostra¬ 
ting himself at Cedric’s feet, “grant me thy forgive¬ 
ness!” 

“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him 
up. “The son of Hereward knows how to keep his 
word, even when it has been passed to a Norman. 
But let me see thee use the dress and costume of thy 
English ancestry—no short cloaks, no gay bonnets, 
no fantastic plumage in my decent household. He 
that would be the son of Cedric, must show himself 
of English \ancestry.—Thou are about to speak,’ 
he added sternly., “and I guess the topic. The Lady 
Rowena must complete two years’ mourning, as foi 
a betrothed husband—all our. Saxon ancestors would 
disown us were we to treat of a new union for her 
ere the grave of him she should have wedded—him, 
so much the most worthy of her hand by birth and 
ancestry—is yet closed. The ghost of Atheistane 
himself would burst his bloody cerements, and stand 
before us to forbid such dishonor to his memory. 

It seemed as if Cedric’s words had raised a spec- 







602 


IVANHOE 


ter: for scarce had he uttered them ere the door flew 
open; and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments of 
the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like 
something arisen from the dead! 1 

The effect of this apparition on the persons present 
was utterly appalling. Cedric started back as far as 
the wall of the apartment would permit, and, leaning 
against it as one unable to support himself, gazed on 
the figure of his friend with eyes that seemed fixed, 
and a mouth which he appeared incapable of shut¬ 
ting. Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating prayers in 
Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred 
to his memory, while Richard alternately said Bene- 
dicite and swore, Mort de ma vie. 2 

In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard be¬ 
low stairs, some crying, “Secure the treacherous 
monks!”—others, ‘Down with them into the dun¬ 
geon!”—others, “Pitch them from the highest bat¬ 
tlements!” 

“In the name of God!” said Cedric, addressing 
what seemed the specter of his departed friend, “if 
thou art mortal, speak!—if a departed spirit, say for 
what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do aught 
that can set thy spirit at repose.—Living or dead, 
noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!” 

“I will,” said the specter, very composedly, “when 
I have collected breath, and when you give me time. 
—Alive, saidst thou?—I am as much alive as he can 

“‘The resuscitation of Athelstane has been much criticised, 
as too violent a breach of probability, even for a work of 
such fantastic character. It was a tour-de-force, to which 
the author was compelled to have recourse, by the vehement 
entreaties of his friend and printer, who was inconsolable 
on the Saxon being conveyed to the tomb.” (Scott’s note.) 
See Edinburgh Review for Jan. 1920. 

2< ‘Death of my life.” 



IVANHOE 


603 


be who has fed on bread and water for three days, 
which seems three ages—Yes, bread and water, 
Father Cedric! By Heaven, and all saints in it, 
better food hath not passed my weasand for three 
livelong days, and by God’s providence it is that I 
am now here to tell it.” 

“Why, noble Athelstane,” said the Black Knight, 
“I myself saw you struck down by the fierce Tem¬ 
plar towards the end of the storm at Torquilstone, 
and as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull 
was cloven through the teeth.” 

“You thought amiss, Sir Knight,” said Athel¬ 
stane, “and Wamba lied. My teeth are in good or¬ 
der, and that my supper shall presently find.—No 
thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned 
in his hand, so that the blade struck me flatlings, 
being averted by the handle of the good mace with 
which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been on, 
I had not vaulted it a rush, and had dealt him such 
a counter buff as would have spoiled his retreat. But 
as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but un¬ 
wounded. Others, of both sides, were beaten down 
and slaughtered above me, so that I never recovered 
my senses until I found myself in a coffin—(an open 
one by good luck)—placed before the altar of the 
church of Saint Edmund’s. I sneezed repeatedly 
groaned—awakened, and would have arisen, when the 
Sacristan and Abbot, full of terror, came running at 
the noise, surprised, doubtless, and no way pleased 
to find the man alive, whose heirs they had proposed 
themselves to be. I asked for wine they gave me 
some, but it must have been highly medicated, for I 
slept yet more deeply than before, and wakened not 
for many hours. I found my arms swathed down 
my feet tied so fast that mine ankles ache at the 
very remembrance—the place was utterly dark the 



604 


IVANHOE 


oubliette, as I suppose, of their accursed convent, 
and from the close, stifled, damp smeil, I conceive 
it is also used for a place of sepulture. I had strange 
thoughts of what had befallen me, when the door of 
my dungeon creaked, and two villain monks entered, 
iney would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, 
but I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice 
of the Father Abbot.—Saint Jeremy! how different 
from that tone with which he used to ask me for 
another slice of the haunch!—the dog has feasted 
with me from Christmas to Twelfth-night.” 1 

“Have patience, noble Athlestane,” said the King, 
“take breath—tell your story at leisure—beshrew me 
but such a tale is as well worth listening to as a 
romance.” 

“Ay but, by the rood of Bromeholm, there was no 
romance in the matter!” said Athelstane.—“A bar¬ 
ley loaf and a pitcher of water—that they gave me, 
the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I my¬ 
self. had enriched, when their best resources were 
the flitches of bacon and measures of corn, out of 
which they wheedled poor surfs and bondsmen, in 
change for their prayers—the nest of foul ungrate¬ 
ful vipers—barley bread and ditch water to such a 
patron as I had been! I will smoke them out of their 
ne:t, though I be excommunicated!” 

“But, in the name of Our Lady, noble Athelstane,” 
said Cedric, grasping the hand of his friend, “how 
didst thou escape this imminent danger?—did their 
hearts relent?” 

“Did their hearts relent!” echoed Athelstane.— 
“Do rocks melt with the sun? I should have been 
there still, had not some stir in the convent, which I 

^n the twelfth night after Christmas the feast of Epi- 
phony is observed to celebrate the manifestation of Christ 
to the Gentiles. 





Ivan hoe 


605 


ind was their procession hitherward to eat my funer¬ 
al teast, when they well knew how and where I 
eiad been buried alive, summoned the swarm out of 
e,;heir hive. I heard them droning out their death- 
i psalms, little judging they were sung in respect for 
ny soul by those who were thus famishing my body- 
they went, however, and I waited long for food— 
eno wonder—the gouty Sacristan was even too busy 
t with his own provender to mind mine. At length 
i’down he came, with an unstable step and a strong 
d flavor of wine and spices about his person. Good 
:heer had opened his heart, for he left me a nook of 
[, pasty and a flask of wine, instead of my former fare, 
e[ ate, drank, and was invigorated; when, to add to my 
a good luck, the Sacristan, too totty to discharge his 
duty of turnkey fitly, locked the door beside the 
o staple, so that it fell ajar. The light, the food, the 

• wine, set my invention to work. The staple to which 
ijrny chains were fixed, was more rusted than I or the 

villain Abbot had supposed. Even iron could not re- 
ejmain without consuming in the damps of that in- 
f fernal dungeon.” 

n “Take breath, noble Athlestane,” said Richard, 

* “and partake of some refreshment, ere you proceed 
a with a tale so dreadful.”’ 

r “Partake!” quoth Athelstane; “I have been par¬ 
taking five times to-day—and yet a morsel of that 
savory ham were not altogether foreign to the mat- 
f ter; and I pray you, fair sir, to do me reason in a 
rjcup of wine.” 

The guests, though still agape with astonishment. 
- pledged their resuscitated landlord, who thus pro- 
1 ceeded in his story:—He had indeed now many more 
[ auditors than those to whom it was commenced, foi 
Edith, having given certain necessary orders for ar- 

*Pledge me. 




606 


IVANHOE 


ranging matters within the Castle, had followed the 
dead-alive up to the stranger’s apartment, attended 
by as many of the guests, male and female, as could 
squeeze into the small room, while others, crowding 
the staircase, caught up an erroneous edition of the 
story, and transmitted it still more inaccurately to 
those beneath, who again sent it forth to the vulgar 
without, in a fashion totally irreconcilable to the 
real fact. Athelstane, however, went on as follows, 
with the history of his escape:— 

“Finding myself freed from the staple, I dragged 
myself upstairs as well as a man loaded with 
shackles, and emaciated with fasting, might; and 
after much groping about, I was at length directed, 
by the sound of a jolly roundelay, to the apartment 
where the worthy Sacristan, an it so please ye, was 
holding a devil’s mass with a huge, beetle-browed, 
broad-shouldered brother of the gray-frock and cowl, 
who looked much more like a thief than a clergyman. 
I burst in upon them, and the fashion of my grave- 
clothes, as well as the clanking of my chains, made 
me more resemble an inhabitant of the other world 
than of this. Both stood aghast; but when I knocked 
down the Sacristan with my fist, the other fellow, 
his pot-companion, fetched a blow at me with a huge 
quarter-staff.” 

“This must be our Friar Tuck, for a count’s ran¬ 
som,” said Richard, looking at Ivanhoe. 

“He may be the devil, an he will,” said Athel¬ 
stane. “Fortunately he missed the aim; and on my 
approaching to grapple with him, took to his heels 
and ran for it. I failed not to set my own heels at 

Question : Why was Athelstane retained as dead by 
those in charge of his body? 

Question : Does it add' to the story to have him 
brought back to life? 






Ivan hoe 


607 


liberty by means of the fetter-key, which hung 
amongst others at the sexton’s belt; and I had 
; thoughts of beating out the knave’s brains with the 
bunch of keys, but gratitude for the nook of pasty 
and the flask of wine which the rascal had imparted 
to my captivity, came over my heart; so, with a 
brace of hearty kicks, I left him on the floor, pouched 
some baked meat, and a leathern bottle of wine, with 
which the two venerable brethren had been regaling, 
went to the stable, and found in a private stall mine 
own best palfrey, which, doubtless, had been set 
apart for the holy Father Abbot’s particular use. 
Hither I came with all the speed the beast could 
compass— man and mother’s son flying before me 
wherever I came, taking me for a specter, the more 
especially as, to prevent my being recognized, I drew 
the corpsehood over my face. I had not gained ad¬ 
mittance into my own castle, had I not been supposed 
to be the attendant of a juggler who is making the 
people in the castle-yard very merry, considering 
they are assembled to celebrate their lord’s funeral 
—I say the sewer thought I was dressed to bear a 
part in the tregetour’s mummery, and so I got admis¬ 
sion, and did but disclose myself to my mother, and 
eat a hasty morsel, ere I came in quest of you, my 
noble friend.” 

“And you have found me,” said Cedric, “ready 
to resume our brave projects of honor and liberty. 
I tell thee, never will dawn a morrow so auspicious 
as the next, for the deliverance of the noble Saxon 
race.” ^ 

“Talk not to me of delivering any one,” said 
Athelstane; “it is well I am delivered myself. I am 
more intent on punishing that villain Abbot. He 
shall hang on the top of this Castle of Coningsburgh, 
in his cope and stole; and if the stairs be too 



608 


IVANHOE 


straight to admit his fat carcass, I will have him 
craned up from without.” 

“But, my son,” said Edith, “consider his sacred 
office.” 

“Consider my three days’ fast,” replied Athel¬ 
stane; “I will have their blood every one of them. 
Front-de-Bceuf was burned alive for a less matter, 
for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put 
too' much garlic in his last dish of pottage. But 
these hypocritical, ungrateful slaves, so often the 
self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me 
neither pottage nor garlic, more or less, they die, by 
the soul of Hengist!” 

“But the Pope, my noble friend,”—said Cedric— 

“But the devil, my noble friend,”—answered 
Athelstane; “they die, and no more of them. Were 
they the best monks upon earth, the world would go 
on without them.” 

“For shame, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric; “for¬ 
get such wretches in the career of glory which lies 
open before thee. Tell this [Norman prince, Rich¬ 
ard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he shall 
not hold undisputed the throne of Alfred, while a 
male descendant of the Holy Confossor lives to dis¬ 
pute it.” 

“How!” said Athelstane, “is this the noble King 
Richard?” 

“It is Richard Plantagenet himself,” said Ced¬ 
ric; “yet I need not remind thee that, coming hither a 
guest of free-will, he may neither be injured nor 
detained prisoner—thou well knowest thy duty to 
him as his host.” 

“Ay, by my faith!” said Athelstane; “and my duty 
as a subject besides, for I here tender him my al¬ 
legiance, heart and hand.” 

“My son,” said Edith, “think on thy royal rights!” 



Ivan hoe 


609 


“Think on the freedom of England, degenerate 
Prince!” said Cedric. 

“Mother and friend,” said Athelstane, “a truce 
to your upbraidings—bread and water and a dun¬ 
geon are marvelous mortifiers of ambition, and I rise 
from the tomb a wiser man than I descended into it. 
One half of those vain follies were puffed into mine 
ear by that perfidious Abbot Wolfram, and you may 
now judge if he is a counselor to be trusted. Since 
these plots were set in agitation, I have had nothing 
but hurried journeys, indigestions, blows and 
bruises, imprisonments and starvation; besides that 
they can only end in the murder of some thousands 
of quiet folk. I tell you, I will be king in my own 
domains, and nowhere else; and my first act of do¬ 
minion shall be to hang the Abbot.” 

“And my ward Rowena,” said Cedric—“I trust you 
intend not to desert her?” 

“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable. 
The Lady Rowena cares not for me—she loves the 
little finger of my kinsman Wilfred’s glove better 
than my whole person. There she stands to avouch 
it.—Nay, blush not, kinswoman, there is no shame 
in loving a courtly knight better than a country 
franklin—and do not laugh neither, Rowena, for 
grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God knows, no 
matter of merriment.—Nay, an thou wilt needs 
laugh, I will find thee a better jest. Give me thy 
hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in the 
way of friendship.—Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivan- 
hoe, in thy favor I renounce and abjure—Hey! by 
Saint Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath vanished!— 
Yet unless my eyes are still dazzled with the fast¬ 
ing I have undergone, I saw him stand there but 
even now.” 

All now looked around and inquired for Ivanhoe, 



610 


IVANHOE 


but he had vanished. It was at length discovered 
that a Jew had been to seek him; and that, (after 
very brief conference, he had called for Gurth and 
his armor, and had left the castle. 

“Fair cousin,” said Athelstane to Rowena, “could 
I think that this sudden disappearance of Ivanhoe 
was occasioned by other than the weightiest reason, 

I would myself resume—” 

But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first ! 
observing that Ivanhoe had disappeared, than Row¬ 
ena, who had found her situation extremely embar¬ 
rassing, had taken the first opportunity to escape 
from the apartment. 

“Certainly/’ quoth Athelstane, “women are the 
least to be trusted of all animals, monks and abbots 
excepted. I am an infidel, if I expected not thanks 
from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot.—These cursed 
grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every one 
flies from me.—To you I turn, noble King Richard, 
with the vows of allegiance, which, as a liege-sub¬ 
ject—” 

But King Richard was gone also, and no one knew 
whither. At length if was learned that he h^ad 
hastened to the courtyard, summoned to his presence 
the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, and after 
a moment’s speech with him, had called vehemently 
to horse, thrown himself upon a steed, compelled the 
Jew to mount another, and set off at a rate, which, 
according to Wamba, rendered the old Jew’s neck 
not/ worth a penny’s purchase. 

“By my halidom!” said Athelstane, “it is certain 
that Zernebock hath possessed himself of my castle 
in my absence. I return in my graveclothes, a pledge 
restored from the very sepulcher, and every one I 


Question: Why did Athelstane give up Rowena? 
Question: Why had Ivanhoe and Richard disappeared? 







IVANHOE 


611 


speak to vanishes as soon as they hear my voice!— 
But it skills not talking of it. Come, my friends— 
such of you as are left, follow me to the banquet- 
hall, lest any more of us disappear. It is, I trust, 
as yet tolerably furnished, as becomes the obsequies 
of &*n ancient Saxon noble; and should we tarry any 
longer, who knows but the devil may fly off with the 
supper?” 



CHAPTER XLIII 

Jde Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom. 

That they may break his foaming courser's back. 

And throw the rider headlong in the lists, 

A caitiff recreant! 

Richard 11. 

Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Cas¬ 
tle, or Preceptory, of Templestowe about the hour 
when the bloody die was to be cast for the life or 
death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, 
as if the whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabi¬ 
tants to a village wake, or rural feast. But the earn¬ 
est desire to look on blood and death, is not peculiar 
to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial ex¬ 
ercise of single combat and general tourney, they 
were habituated to the bloody spectacle of brave 
men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own 
days, when morals are better understood, an execu¬ 
tion, a bruising match, a riot, or a meeting of radical 
reformers, collects, at considerable hazard to them¬ 
selves, immense crowds of spectators, otherwise lit¬ 
tle interested, except to see how matters are to be 
conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in 
the heroic language of insurgent tailors, flints or 
dung-hills. 

The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multi¬ 
tude, were bent on the gate of the Preceptory of 
Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing the 
procession; while still greater numbers had already 
surrounded the tiltyard belonging to that establish¬ 
ment. This inclosure was formed on a piece of level 
ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been 
leveled with care, for the exercise of military and 
chivalrous sports. It occupied the brow of a soft 
and gentle eminence, was carefully palisaded around, 



IVANHOE 


613 


and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators 
to be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was 
amply supplied with galleries and benches for their 
use. 

On the present occasion, a throne was erected for 
the Grand Master at the east end, surrounded with 
seats of distinction for the Preceptors and Knights 
of the Order. Over these floated the sacred stand¬ 
ard, called Le Beau-seant, which was the ensign, as 
its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars. 

At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of fag¬ 
ots, so arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the 
ground, as to leave a space for the victim whom they 
were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal 
circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the 
fetters which hung ready for that purpose. Beside 
this deadly apparatus stood four black slaves, whose 
color and African features, then so little known in 
England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them 
as on demons employed about their own diabolical 
exercises. These men stirred not, excepting now and 
then, under the direction of pne who seemed their 
chief, to shift and replace the ready fuel. They 
looked not on the multitude. In fact they seemed 
insensible of their presence, and of everything save 
the discharge of their own horrible duty. And when, 
in speech with each other, they expanded their blub¬ 
ber lips, and showed their white fangs, as if they 
grinned at the thoughts of the expected tragedy, the 
startled commons could scarcely help believing that 
they were actually the familiar spirits with whom 
the witch had communed, and who, her time being 
out, stood ready to assist in her dreadful punishment. 
They whispered to each other, and communicated all 
the feats which Satan had performed during that 
busy and unhappy period, not failing, of course, to 



614 


Ivan hoe 


give the devil rather more than his due. 

“Have you not heard, Father Dennet,” quoth one 
boor to another advanced in years, “that the devil 
has carried away bodily the great Saxon Thane, 
Athelstane of Coningsburgh?” 

“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the 
blessing of God and Saint Dunstan.” 

“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed 
in a green cassock embroidered with gold, and having 
at his heels a stout lad bearing a harp upon his back, 
which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed 
of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendor of his 
gayly broidered doublet, he wore around his neck 
a silver chain, by which hung the wrest, or key, with 
which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a 
silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the 
cognizance or badge of the baron to whose family he 
belonged, had barely the word Sherwood engraved 
upon it.—“How mean you by that?” said the gay 
Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peas¬ 
ants; “I came to seek one subject for my rhyme, and 
by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.” 

“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that 
after Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been dead four 
weeks-” 

“That is impossible,” said the Ministrel; “I saw 


him in life at the Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la 
Zouche.” 

“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said 
the younger peasant; “for I heard the monks of 
Saint Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for him; 
and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole 
at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and 
thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who-” 


“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shak- 





IVANHOE 


615 


ing his head, “and the more pity it was for the old 
Saxon blood-” 

“But, your story, my masters—your story,” said 
the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently. 

“Ay, ay—construe us the story,” said a burly 
Friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole that 
exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim’s staff 
and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either 
when occasion served.—“Your story,” said the stal¬ 
wart churchman; “burn not daylight about it—we 
have short time to spare.” 

“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunk¬ 
en priest came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Ed¬ 
mund’s-” 

“It does not please my reverence,” answered the 
churchman, “that there should be such an animal 
as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a layman 
should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and 
conclude the holy man only wrapt in meditation, 
which makes the head dizzy and foot unsteady, as 
if the stomach were filled with new wine—I have 
felt it myself.” 

“Well, then,” answered Father Dennet, “a holy 
brother came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Ed¬ 
mund’s—a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and 
kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who 
loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sac- 
ring-bell, and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten of 
his beviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a merry, 
who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and 
dance a Cheshire round, with e’er a man in York¬ 
shire.” 

“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,”^ said the 
Minstrel, “has saved thee a rib or twain.” 

“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet* “I 





616 


IVANHOE 


am somewhat old and stiff, but when I fought for 
the bell and ram 1 at Doncaster-” 

“But the story—the story, my friend,” again said 
the Minstrel. 

“Why, the tale is but this—Athelstane of Con- 
ingsburgh was buried at Saint Edmund’s.” 

“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the Friar, 
“for I saw him borne to his own Castle of Cun- 
ingsburgh.” 

“Nay, then, e’en tell the story yourself, my mas¬ 
ters,” said Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated 
contradictions; and it was with some difficulty that 
the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of 
his comrade, and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.— 
“These two sober friars said he at length, “since 
this reverend man will needs have them such, had 
continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what 
not, for the best part of a summer’s day, when they 
were aroused by a deep groan, and a clanking of 
chains, and figure of the deceased Athelstane en¬ 
tered the apartment, saying, “Ye evil shepherds!” 

“It is false,” said the Friar, hastily, “he never 
spoke a word.” 

“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing 
him apart from the rustics; “we have started a new 
hare, I find.” 

“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I 
saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as bodily 
eyes ever saw a living man. He had his shroud on, 
and all about him smelt of the sepulcher.—A butt 
of sack will not wash it out of my memory.” 

“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but 
jest with me!” 

“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched 
not a knock at him with my quarter-staff that would 


Prizes given in contests. 




IVANHOE 


617 


have felled an ox, and it glided through his body 
as it might through a pillar of smoke!” 

“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is 
a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in meter to the 
ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the old Friar.’ ” 

“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye 
catch me singing on such a theme, may the next 
ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! 
No, no—I instantly formed the purpose of assist¬ 
ing at some good work, such as the burning of a 
witch, a judicial combat, or the like manner of godly 
service, and therefore am I here.” 

As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the 
church of Saint Micheal of Templestowe, a venerable 
building, situated in a hamlet at some distance from 
the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by 
one the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, 
leaving but sufficient space for each to die away in 
distant echo, ere the air was again filled by repeti¬ 
tion of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the 
approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts 
of the assembled multitude, whose eyes were now 
turned to the Preceptory, expecting the approach of 
the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal. 

At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, 
and a knight, bearing the great standard of the Or¬ 
der, sallied from the castle, preceded by six trump¬ 
ets, and fallowed by the Knights Preceptors, two 
and two, the Grand Master coming last, mounted 
on a stately horse, whose furniture was of the sim¬ 
plest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, 
armed cap-a-pie in bright armor, but without his 
lance, shield, and sword, which were borne by his 
two esquires behind him. His face, though partly 
hidden by a long plume which floated down from his 
barret-cap. bore a strong and mingled expression of 



618 


IVANHOE 


passion, in which pride seemed to contend with 
irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had 
not slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing 
war-horse with the habitual ease and grace proper 
to the best lance of the Order of the Temple. His 
general appearance was grand and commanding; but, 
looking at him with attention, men read that in his 
dark features, from which they willingly withdrew 
their eyes. 

On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet and 
Albert de Malvoisin, who acted as godfathers to 
the champion. They were in their robes of peace, 
the white dress of the Order. Behind them fol¬ 
lowed other Companions of the Temple, with a long 
train of esquires and pages clad in black, aspirants 
to the honor of being one day Knights of the Order. 
After these neophytes came a guard of warders on 
foot, in the same sable livery, amidst whose parti¬ 
sans might be seen the pale form of the accused, 
moving with a slow but undismayed step towards 
the scene of her fate. She was stripped of 
all her ornaments, lest perchance there should 
be among them some of those amulets which 
Satan was supposed to bestow upon his 
victims, to deprive them of the power of 
confession even when under the torture. A coarse 
white dress, of the simplest form, had been substi¬ 
tuted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such 
an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in 
her look, that even in this garb, and with no other 
ornament than her long black tresses, each eye wept 
that looked upon her, and the most hardened bigot 
regretted the fate that had converted a creature so 
goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a waged slave of 
the devil. 

A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the 


IVANHOE 


619 


Preceptory followed the victim, all moving with the 
utmost order, with arms folded, and looks bent upon 
the ground. 

This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, 
on the summit of which was the tilt-yard, and, enter¬ 
ing the lists, marched once around them from right 
to left, and when they had completed the circle, made 
a halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while 
the Grand Master and all his attendants, excepting 
the champion and his godfathers, dismounted from 
their horses, which were immediately removed out 
of the lists by the esquires, who were in attendance 
for that purpose. 

The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black 
chair placed near the pile. On her first glance at the 
terrible spot where preparations were making for a 
death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the 
body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, 
praying internally doubtless, for her lips moved 
though no speech was heard. In the space of a minute 
she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if 
to familiarize her mind with the object, and then slow¬ 
ly and naturally turned away her head. 

Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; 
and when the chivalry of his order was placed around 
and behind him, each in his due rank, a loud and long 
flourish of the trumpets announced that the Court 
were seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting 
as godfather of the champion, stepped forward, and 
laid the glove of the Jewess, which was the pledge 
of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master. . 

“Valorous Lord, and reverend Father, : ” said he, 
“here standeth the good Knight, Brian de Bois-Guil- 
bert Knight Preceptor of the Order of the Temple, 
who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now 
lay at your reverence’s feet, hath become bound to 


620 


IVANHOE 


do his devoir in combat this day, to maintain that 
this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly 
deserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of 
this most Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, condemn¬ 
ing her to die as a sorceress;—here, I say, he stan- 
deth, such battle to do, knightly and honorable, if 
such be your noble and sanctified pleasure.” 

“Hath he made oath,” said the Grand Master, “that 
his quarrel is just and honorable? Bring forward 
the crucifix and the Te igitur .” 1 

“Sir, and most reverend father,” answered Mal- 
voisin, readily, “our brother here present hath already 
sworn to the truth of his accusation in the hand of 
the good knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and other¬ 
wise he ought not to be sworn, seeing that his ad¬ 
versary is an unbeliever, and may take no oath.” 

This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert's 
great joy; for the wily knight had foreseen the great 
difficulty, or rather impossibility, of prevailing upon 
Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before 
the assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape 
the necessity of his doing so. 

The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of 
Albert Malvoisin, commanded the herald to stand 
forth and do his devoir. The trumpets then again 
flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, pro¬ 
claimed aloud,—“Oyez, oyez, oyez. 2 —Here standeth 
the good Knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ready 
to do battle with any knight of free blood, who will 
sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess 
Rebecca, to try by champion, in respect of lawful 


a “Thee therefore.” These beginning words are used to 
signify the holy book on which the oath was administered. 

2 “Hear ye,” a proclamation made by the court crier at the 
opening of court. 



IVANHOE 


621 


essoine 1 of her own body; and to such champion the 
reverend and valorous Grand Master here present 
allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and 
wind, and whatever else appertains to a fair com¬ 
bat. The trumpets again sounded, and there was a 
dead pause of many minutes. 

“No champion appears for the appellant,” said the 
Grand Master. “Go, herald, and ask her whether 
she expects any one to do battle for her in this her 
cause.” The herald went to the chair in which Re¬ 
becca was seated, and Bois-Guilbert, suddenly turn¬ 
ing his horse’s head towards that end of the lists, in 
spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and 
Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca’s chair as 
soon as the herald. 

“Is this regular, and according to the law of com¬ 
bat?” said Malvoisin, looking to the Grand Master. 

“Albert de Malvoisin, it is,” answered Beaumanoir; 
“for in this appeal to the judgment of God, we may 
not prohibit parties from having that communica¬ 
tion with each other, which may best tend to bring 
forth the truth of the quarrel.” 

In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in 
these terms:—“Damsel, the Honorable and Reverend 
the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou art pre¬ 
pared with a champion to do battle this day in thy 
behalf, or if thou dost yield thee as one justly con¬ 
demned to a deserved doom?” 

“Say to the Grand Master,” replied Rebecca, “that 
I maintain my innocence, and do not yield me as 
justly condemned, lest I become guilty of mine own 
blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as 
his forms will permit, to see if God, whose oppor¬ 
tunity is in man’s extremity, will raise me up a de¬ 
liverer; and when such uttermost space is passed, 


*An excuse for non-appearance. 



622 


IVANHOE 


may His holy will be done!” The herald retired to 
carry this answer to the Grand Master. 

“God forbid,” said Lucas Beaumanoir, “that Jew 
or Pagan should impeach us of injustice!—Until the 
shadows be cast from the west to the eastward, will 
we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this 
unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, 
let her prepare for death.” 

The herald communicated the words of the Grand 
Master to Rebecca, who bowed her head submissively, 
folded her arms, and, looking up towards heaven, 
seemed to expect that aid from above which she could 
scarce promise herself from man. During this awful 
pause, the voice of Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear 
—it was but a whisper, yet it startled her more than 
the summons of the herald had appeared to do. 

“Rebecca,” said the Templar, “dost thou hear me?” 

• “I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted 
man,” said the unfortunate maiden. 

“Ay, but dost thou understand my words?” said 
the Templar; “for the sound of my voice is frightful 
in mine own ears. I scarce know on what ground we 
stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hith¬ 
er.—This listed space—that chair—these fagots—I 
know their purpose, and yet it appears to me like 
something unreal—the fearful picture of a vision, 
which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but 
convinces not my reason.” 

“My mind and senses keep touch and time,” an¬ 
swered Rebecca, “and tell me alike that these fagots 
are destined to consume my earthly body, and open 
a painful but a brief passage to a better world.” 

“Dreams, Rebecca,—dreams,” answered the Tern- j 
plar; “idle visions, rejected by the wisdom of your 
own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,” he said, 
proceeding with animation; “a better chance hast 







IVANHOE 


623 


thou for life and liberty than yonder knaves and 
dotard dream of. Mount thee behind me on my steed 
—on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his 
rider. I won him in single fight from the Soldan of 
Trebizond—mount, I say, behind me—in one short 
hour is pursuit and inquiry far behind—a new world 
of pleasure opens to thee—to me a new career of 
fame. Let them speak the doom which I despise, and 
erase the name of Bois-Guilbert from their list of 
monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood what¬ 
ever blot they may dare to cast on my scutcheon.” 

“Tempter,” said Rebecca, “begone!—Not in 
j this last extremity canst thou move me one hair’s- 
breadth from my resting-place—surrounded as I am 
} by foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly 
enemy—avoid thee, in the name of God!” 

Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the 
duration of their conference, now advanced to in- 
| terrupt it. 

“Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?” he 
demanded of Bois-Guilbert; “or is she resolute in 
her denial?” 

“She is indeed resolute ,” said Bois-Guilbert. 

“Then,” said Malvoisin, “must thou, noble 
brother, resume thy place to attend the issue. The 
shades are changing on the circle of the dial—come, 
brave Bois-Guilbert—come, thou hope of our holy 
Order, and soon to be its head.” 

As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand 
on the knight’s bridle, as if to lead him back to his 
station. 

“False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand 
on my rein?” said Sir Brian, angrily. And taking 
off his companion’s grasp, he rode back to the upper 
end of the lists. 

“There is yet spirit in him,” said Malvoisin, apart- 



624 


IVANHOE 


to Mont-Fitchet, “were it well directed—but, like 
the Greek fire, it burns whatever approaches it.” 

The Judges had now been two hours in the lists, 
awaiting in vain the appearance of a champion. 

“And reason good,” said Fjriar Tuck, “seeing 
she is a Jewess—and yet, by mine Order, it is hard 
that so young and beautiful a creature should perish 
without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were 
she ten times a witch, provided she were but the 
least bit of a Christian, my quarter-staff should ring 
noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce Templar, ere 
he carried the matter off thus.” 

It was, however, the general belief that no one 
could or would appear for a Jewess, accused of 
sorcery; and the knights, instigated by Malvoisin, 
whispered to each other, that it was time to declare 
the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a 
knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the 
plain advancing toward the lists. A hundred 
voices exclaimed, “A champion! a champion!” And 
despite the prepossessions and prejudices of the 
multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight 
rode into the tilt-yard. The second glance, however, 
served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had 
excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its 
utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue, and the 
rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in 
the lists, either from weakness, weariness, or both, 
seemed scarce able to support himself in the saddle. 

To the summons of the herald, who demanded his 
rank, his name, and purpose, the stranger knight 
answered readily and boldly, “I am a good knight 
and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and 
sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, 
Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the 
doom pronounced against her to be false and truth- 


IVANHOE 


625 


less, and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a 
traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this 
field with my body against his, by the aid of God, 
of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the 
good knight.” 

“The stranger must first show,” said Malvoisin, 
that he is a good knight, and of honorable lineage. 
The Temple sendeth not forth her champions against 
nameless men.” 

^ “My name,” said the knight ; raising his helmet, 
“is better known, my lineage more pure, Malvoisin, 
than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe.” 

“I will not fight with thee at present,” said the 
Templar, in a changed and hollow voice. “Get thy 
wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it may 
be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee 
this boyish spirit of bravado.” 

“Ha! proud Templar,” said Ivanhoe, “hast thou 
forgotten that twice didst thou fall before this lance? 
Remember the lists at Acre—remember the Passage 
of Arms at Ashby—remember thy proud vaunt in the 
halls of Rotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain 
against my reliquary, that thou wouldst do battle 
with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honor thou 
hadst lost! By that reliquary, and the holy relic it 
contains, I will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in 
every court in Europe—in every Preceptory of thine 
Order—unless thou do battle without farther delay.” 

Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely 
towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking fierce¬ 
ly at Ivanhoe, “Dog of a Saxon! take thy lance, and 
prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!” 

“Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?” 
said Ivanhoe. 

“I may not deny what thou hast challenged,” said 
the Grand Master, “provided the maiden accepts thee 



626 


IVANHOE 


as her champion. Yet I would thou wert in better 
plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast 
thou ever been, yet would I have thee honorably 
met with/’ 

“Thus—thus as I am, and not otherwise,” saM 
Ivanhoe; “it is the judgment of God—to His keep¬ 
ing I commend myself.—Rebecca,” said he, riding up 
to the fatal chair, “dost thou accept of me for thy 
champion?” 

“I do,” she said—“I do,” fluttered by an emotion 
which the fear of death had been unable to produce. 
“I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven 
hath sent me. Yet, no—no—thy wounds are un¬ 
cured.—Meet not that proud man—why shouldst thou 
perish also?” 

But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed 
his visor, and assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did 
the same; and his esquire remarked, as he clasped 
his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding 
the variety of emotions by which he had been agi¬ 
tated, continued during the whole morning of an ashy 
paleness, was now become suddenly very much flushed. 

The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, 
uplifted his voice, repeating thrice —Faltes vos 1 
devoirs, preux chevaliers! After the third cry, he 
withdrew to one side of the lists, and again pro¬ 
claimed, that none, on peril of instant death, should 
dare, by word, cry, or action, to interfere with or 
disturb this fair field of combat. The Grand Master, 
who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca’s 
glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the 
fatal signal words, Laissez alter. 

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged 
each other in full career. The wearied horse of 
Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, 

Perform your duty, brave knights. 



Ivan hoe 


627 


as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and 
vigorous steed of the Templar. This issue of the 
combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of 
Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield of 
Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of 
all who beheld it, reeled in his saddle, lost his stir¬ 
rups and fell in the lists. 

Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, 
was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune with 
his sword; but his antagonist arose not. Wilfred, 
placing his foot on his breast, and the sword’s point 
to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die 
on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no answer. 

“Slay him not, Sir Knight,” cried the Grand Mas¬ 
ter, “unshriven and unabsolved—kill not body and 
soul! We allow him vanquished.” 

He descended into the lists, and commanded them 
to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were 
dosed—the dark red flush was still on his brow. As 
they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened 
—but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed 
from his brow, and gave way to the pallid hue of 
death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had 
died a victim to the violence of his own contending 
passions. 

“This is indeed the judgment of God,” said the 
Grand Master, looking upwards —'“Fiat voluntas tuaV 


ir Thy will be done. 

Question : Did Brian de Bois-Guilbert die from a nat¬ 
ural cause? 




CHAPTER XL1V 

So! Now ’tis ended, like an old wife’s story.— Webster. 

When the first moments of surprise were over, 
Wilfred of Ivanhoe demanded of the Grand Master, 
as judge of the field, if he had manfully and right¬ 
fully done his duty in the combat? 

“Manfully and rightfully hath it been done,” said 
the Grand Master; “I pronounce the maiden free 
and guiltless.—The arms and the body of the deceased 
knight are at the will of the victor.” 

“I will not despoil him of his weapons,” said the 
Knight of Ivanhoe, “nor condemn his corpse to shame 
—he hath fought for Christendom—God’s arm, no 
human hand, hath this day struck him down. But 
let his obsequies be private, as becomes those of a 
man who died in an unjust quarrel.—And for the 
maiden-” 

He was interrupted by a clattering of horses’ feet, 
advancing in such numbers, and so rapidly, as to 
shake the ground before them; and the Black Knight 
galloped into the lists. He was followed by a numer¬ 
ous band of men-at-arms, and several knights in 
complete armor. 

“I am too late,” he said, looking around him. “I 
had doomed Bois-Guilbert for mine own property.— 
Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on thee such a ven¬ 
ture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?” 

“Heaven, my Liege,” answered Ivanhoe, “hath tak¬ 
en this proud man for its victim. He was not to 
be honored in dying as your will has designed.” 

“Peace be with him,” said Richard, looking stead¬ 
fastly on the corpse, “if it may be so—he was a gal¬ 
lant knight, and has died in his steel harness full 



Ivan hoe 


629 


knightly. But we must waste no time—Bohun, do 
thine office!” 

A knight stepped forward from the King’s attend¬ 
ants, and. laying his hand on the shoulder of Albert 
de Malvoisin, said, “I arrest thee of High Treason.” 

The Vriand Master hath hitherto stood astonished 
at the appearance of so many warriors.—He now 
spoke. 

“Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple of 
Zion, within the girth of his own Preceptory, and in 
the presence of the Grand Master? and by whose 
authority is this bold outrage offered?” 

“I make the arrest,” replied the knight—“I, Henry 
Bohun, Earl of Essex, Lord High Constable of Eng¬ 
land.” 

“And he arrests Malvoisin,” said the King, rais¬ 
ing his visor, “by the order of Richard Plantagenet, 
here present.—Conrade Mont-Fitchet, it is well for 
thee thou are born no subject of mine.—But for thee, 
Malvoisin, thou diest with thy brother Philip, ere 
the world be a week older.” 

“I will resist thy doom,” said the Grand Master. 

“Proud Templar,” said the King, “thou canst not 
—look up, and behold the Royal Standard of England 
floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple banner! 
—Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no bootless op¬ 
position. Thy hand is in the lion’s mouth.” 

“I will appeal to Rome against thee,” said the 
Grand Master, “for usurpation on the immunities 
and privileges of our Order.” 

“Be it so,” said the King; “but for thine own 
sake tax me not with usurpation now. Dissolve thy 
Chapter, and depart with thy followers to thy next 
Preceptory (if thou canst find one), which has not 
been made the scene of treasonable conspiracy against 
the King of England. Or, if thou wilt, remain, to 



630 


IVANHOE 


share our hospitality, and behold our justice.” 

“To be a guest in the house where I should com¬ 
mand ?” said the Templar; “never!—Chaplains, raise 
the Psalm. Quare fremuerunt Gentes ? 1 —Knights 
squires, and followers of the Holy Temple, prepare 
to follow the banner of Beau-seant!” 

The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which con¬ 
fronted even that of England’s king himself, and 
inspired courage into his surprised and dismayed 
followers. They gathered around him like the sheep 
around the watch-dog, when they hear the baying of 
the wolf. But they evinced not the. timidity of the 
scared flock—there were dark brows of defiance, and 
looks which menaced the hostility they dared not to' 
proffer in words. They drew together in a dark line 
of spears, from which the white cloaks of the knights 
were visible among the dusky garments of their re¬ 
tainers, like the lighter-colored edges of a sable cloud. 
The multitude, who had raised a clamorous shout of 
reprobation, paused and gazed in silence on the for¬ 
midable and experienced body to which they had un¬ 
warily bade defiance, and shrunk back from their 
front. 

The Earl of Essex, when he beheld them pause in 
their assembled force, dashed the rowels into his 
charger’s sides, and galloped backwards and forwards 
to array his followers, in opposition to a band so 
formidable. Richard alone, as if he loved the danger 
his presence had provoked, rode slowly along the front 
of the Templars, calling aloud, “What, sirs! Among 
so many gallant knights, will none dare splinter a 
spear with Richard?—Sirs of the Temple! your ladies 
are but sun-burned, if they are not worth the shiver 
of a broken lance!” 

“The Brethren of the Temple,” said the Grand 


1 Why do the heathen rage? 




IVANHOE 


631 


Master, riding forward in advance of their body, 

fight not on such idle and profane quarrel—and 
not with thee, Richard of England, ’shall a Templar 
cross lance in my presence. The Pope and Princes 
of Europe shall judge our quarrel, and whether a 
Christian prince has done well in bucklering the 
cause which thou hast to-day adopted. If unassailed, 
we depart assailing no one. To thine honor we refer 
the armor and household goods of the Order which 
we leave behind us, and on thy conscience we lay the 
scandal and offense thou hast this day given to 
Christendom.” 

With these words, and without waiting a reply, 
the Grand Master gave the signal of departure. 
Their trumpets sounded a wild march, of an Oriental 
character, which formed the usual signal for the 
Templars to advance. They changed their array 
from a line to a column of march, and moved off as 
slowly as their horses could step, as if to show it was 
only the will of their Grand Master, and no fear of 
the opposing and superior force, which compelled 
them to withdraw. 

“By the splendor of Our Lady’s brow!” said King 
Richard, “it is pity of their lives that these Templars 
are not so trusty as they are disciplined and valiant.” 

The multitude, like a timid cur which waits to 
bark till the object of its challenge has turned his 
back, raised a feeble shout as the rear of the squad¬ 
ron left the ground. 

During the tumult which attended the retreat of 
the Templars, Rebecca saw and heard nothing—she 
was locked in the arms of her aged father, giddy, and 
almost senseless, with the rapid change of circum¬ 
stances around her. But one word from Isaac at 
length recalled her scattered feelings. 

“Let us go,” he said, “my dear daughter, my re- 


632 


IVANHOE 


covered treasure—let us go to throw ourselves at the 
feet of the good youth.’' 

‘‘Not so,” said Rebecca, “0 no—no—no—I must 
not at this moment dare to speak to him.—Alas! I 
should say more than—No, my father, let us in¬ 
stantly leave this evil place.” 

“But, my daughter,” said Isaac, “to leave him who 
hath come forth like a strong man with his spear 
and shield, holding his life as nothing, so he might 
redeem thy captivity; and thou, too, the daughter 
of a people strange unto him and his—this is ser¬ 
vice to be thankfully acknowledged.” 

“It is—it is—most thankfully—most devoutly 
acknowledged,” said Rebecca—“it shall be still more 
so—but not now—for the sake of thy beloved Rachel, 
father; grant my request—not now!” 

“Nay, but,” said Isaac, insisting, “they will deem 
us more thankless than mere dogs!” 

“But thou seest, my dear father, that King Rich¬ 
ard is in presence, and that-” 

“True, my best—my wisest Rebecca!—Let us 
hence—let us hence!—Money he will lack, for he has 
just returned from Palestine, and, as they say, from 
prison—and pretext for exacting it, should he need 
any, may arise out of my simple traffic with his 
brother John. Away, away, let us hence!” 

And hurrying his daughter in his turn, he con¬ 
ducted her from the lists, and by means of convey¬ 
ance which he had provided, transported her safely 
to the house of the Rabbi Nathan. 

The Jewess, whose fortunes had formed the prin¬ 
cipal interest of the day, having now retired unob¬ 
served, the attention of the populace was transferred 
to the Black Knight. They now filled the air with 
“Long life to Richard with the Lion’s Heart, and 
down with the usurping Templars!” 



IVANHOE 


633 


“Notwithstanding all this lip-loyalty,” said Ivan- 
hoe to the Earl of Essex, “it was well the King took 
the precaution to bring thee with him, noble Earl 
and so many of ‘thy trusty followers.” 

The Earl smiled and shook his head. 

“Gallant Ivanhoe,” said Essex, “dost thou know 
our Master so well, and yet suspect him of taking 
so wise a precaution! I was drawing towards York, 
having heard that Prince John was making head 
there, when I met King Richard, like a true knight- 
enant, galloping hither to achieve in his own person 
this adventure of the Templar and the Jewess, with 
his own single arm. I accompanied him with my 
band, almost mauger his consent.” 

“And what news from York, brave Earl?” said 
Ivanhoe, “will the rebels bide us there?” 

“No more than December’s snow will bide July’s 
sun,” said the Earl; “they are dispersing; and who 
should come posting to bring us the news, but John 
himself!” 

“The traitor! the ungrateful insolent traitor!” said 
Ivanhoe; “did not Richard order him into confine¬ 
ment?” 

“Oh! he received him,” answered the Earl, “as if 
they had met after a hunting party; and, pointing to 
me and our men-at-arms, said, ‘Thou seest, brother, 

I have some angry men with me—thou wert best go 
to our mother, carry her my duteous affection, and 
abide with her until men’s minds are pacified.’ ” 

“And this was all he said?” inquired Ivanhoe; 
“would not any one say that this Prince invites men 
to treason by his clemency?” 

“Just,” replied the Earl, ‘“as the man may be said 
to invite death, who undertakes to fight a combat, 
having a dangerous wound unhealed.” 

“I forgive thee the jest, Lord Earl,” said Ivan- 




634 


IVANHOE 


hoe; “but, remember, I hazarded but my own life— 
Richard, the welfare of his kingdom.” 

“Those,” replied Essex, “who are specially care¬ 
less of their own welfare, are seldom remarkably 
attentive to that of others.—But let us haste to the 
castle, for Richard meditates punishing some of the 
subordinate members of the conspiracy, though he 
has pardoned their principal.” 

From the judicial investigations which followed 
on this occasion, and which are given at length in 
the Wardour Manuscript, it appears that Maurice de 
Bracy escaped beyond seas, and went into the service 
of Philip of France; while Philip de Malvoisin, and 
his brother Albert, the Preceptor of Templestowe. 
were executed, although Waldemar Fitzurse, the soul 
of the conspiracy, escaped with banishment; and 
Prince John, for whose behoof it was undertaken, 
was not even censured by his good-natured brother. 
No one, however, pitied the fate of the two Malvois- 
ins, who only suffered the death which they had both 
well deserved, by many acts of falsehood, cruelty, and 
oppression. 

Briefly, after the judicial combat, Cedric the Sax¬ 
on was summoned to the court of Richard, which, for 
the purpose of quieting the counties that had been 
disturbed by the ambition of his brother, was then 
held at York. Cedric tushed and pshawed more than 
once at the message—but he refused not obedience. 
In fact, the return of Richard had quenched every 
hope that he had entertained of restoring a Saxon 
dynasty in England; for, whatever head the Saxons 
might have made in the event of a civil war, it was 
plain that nothing could be done under the undis¬ 
puted dominion of Richard, popular as he was by his 
personal good qualities and military fame, although 


IVANHOE 


635 


his administration was willfully careless, now too in¬ 
dulgent, and now allied to depotism. 

But, moreover, it could not escape even Cedric’s 
reluctant observation, that his project for an absolute 
union among the Saxons, by the marriage of Rowena 
and Athelstane, was now completely at an end, by 
the mutual dissent of both parties concerned. This 
was, indeed, an event which, in his ardor for the 
Saxon cause, he could not have anticipated, and even 
when the disinclination of both was broadly and 
plainly manifested, he could scarce bring himself to 
believe that two Saxons of royal descent should 
scruple, on personal grounds, at an alliance so neces¬ 
sary for the public weal of the nation. But it was 
not the less certain: Rowena had always expressed 
her repugnance to Athelstane, and now Athelstane 
was not less plain and positive in proclaiming his 
resolution never to pursue his addresses to the Lady 
Rowena. Even the natural obstinacy of Cedric sunk 
beneath these obstacles, where he, remaining on the 
point of junction, had the task of dragging a re¬ 
luctant pair up to it, one with each hand. He made, 
however, a last vigorous attack on Athelstane, and 
he found that resuscitated sprout of Saxon royalty 
i engaged, like country squires of our own day, in a 
furious war with the clergy. 

It seems that, after all his deadly menaces against 
: the Abbot of Saint Edmund’s, Athelstane’s spirit of 
revenge, what between the natural indolent kindness 
of his own disposition, what through the prayers of 
his mother Edith, attached, like most ladies (of the 
period), to the clerical order, had terminated in his 
keeping the Abbot and his monks in the dungeons of 
Coningsburgh for three days on a meager diet. For 
this atrocity the Abbot menaced him with excom¬ 
munication, and made out a dreadful list of com- 



636 


IVANHOE 


plaints in the bowels and stomach, suffered by him¬ 
self and his monks, in consequence of the tyrannical 
and unjust imprisonment they had sustained. 

With this controversy, and with the means he had 
adopted to counteract this clerical persecution, Cedric 
found the mind of his friend Athelstane so fully oc¬ 
cupied that it had no room for another idea. And 
when Rowena’s name was mentioned, the noble 
Athelstane prayed leave to quaff a full goblet to her 
health, and that she might soon be the bride of his 
kinsman Wilfred. It was a desperate case therefore. 
There was obviously no more to be made of Athel¬ 
stane; or, as Wamba expressed it. in a phrase which 
had descended from Saxon times to ours, he was a 
cock that would not fight. 

There remained betwixt Cedric and the determina¬ 
tion which the lovers desired to come to, only two 
obstacles—his own obstinacy, and his dislike of the 
Norman dynasty. The former feeling gradually gave 
way before the endearments of his ward, and the 
pride which he could not help nourishing in the fame 
of his son. Besides, he was not insensible to the 
honor of allying his own line to that of Alfred, when 
the superior claims of the descendant of Edward the 
Confessor were abandoned forever. Cedric’s aver¬ 
sion to the Norman race of kings was also much 
undermined,—first, by consideration of the impossi¬ 
bility of ridding England of the new dynasty, a feel¬ 
ing which goes far to create loyalty in the subject 
to the king de facto; and, secondly, by the personal 
attention of King Richard, who delighted in the 
blunt humor of Cedric, and, to use the language of 
the Wardour Manuscript, so dealt with the noble 
Saxon, that, ere he had been a guest at court for seven 
days, he had given his consent to the marriage of his 
ward Rowena and his son Wilfred of Ivanhoe. 


IVANHOE 


637 


The nuptials of our hero, thus formally approved 
I by his father, were celebrated in the most august of 
temples, the noble Minister of York. The King him¬ 
self attended, and from the countenance which he af¬ 
forded on this and other occasions to the distressed 
and hitherto degraded Saxons, gave them a safer and 
more certain prospect of attaining their just rights, 
than they could reasonably hope from the precarious 
chance of a civil war. The Church gave her full 
solemnities, graced with all the splendor which she 
of Rome knows how to apply with such brilliant ef¬ 
fect. 

Gurth, gallantly appareled, attended as esquire 
upon his young master whom he had served so faith- 
| and the maganimous Wamba, decorated with 

a new cap, and a most gorgeous set of silver bells. 
Sharers of Wilfred’s dangers and adversity, they re¬ 
mained, as they had a right to expect, the partakers 
of his more prosperous career. 

But besides the domestic retinue, these distin¬ 
guished nuptials were celebrated by the attendance of 
the high-born Normans, as well as Saxons, joined 
with the universe jubilee of the lower-orders, that 
marked the marriage of two individuals as a pledge 
of the future peace and harmony betwixt two races, 
which, since that period, have been so completely 
mingled, that the distinction has become wholly in¬ 
visible. Cedric lived to see this union approximate 
towards its completion; for as the two nations mixed 
in society and formed intermarriages with each oth¬ 
er, the Normans abated their scorn, and the Saxons 
were refined from their rusticity. But it was not 
until the reign of Edward the Third that the mixed 
language, now termed English, was spoken at the 
court of London, and that the hostile distinction of 
Norman and Saxon seems entirely to have disappeared. 



638 


IVANHOE 


It was upon the second morning after this happy 
bridal, that the Lady Rowena was made acquainted 
by her handmaid Elgitha, that a damsel desired ad¬ 
mission to her presence, and solicited that their par¬ 
ley might be without witness. Rowena wondered, 
hesitated, became curious, and ended by command¬ 
ing the damsel to be admitted, and her attendants to 
withdraw. 

She entered— a noble and commanding figure, the 
long white veil, in which she was shrouded, over¬ 
shadowing rather than concealing the elegance and 
majesty of her shape. Her demeanor was that of 
respect, unmingled by the least shade either of fear, 
or of a wish to propitiate favor. Rowena was ever 
ready to acknowledge the claims, and attend to the 
feelings, of others. She arose, and would have con¬ 
ducted her lovely visitor to a seat; but the stranger 
looked at Elgitha, and again intimated a wish to dis¬ 
course with the Lady Rowena alone. Elgitha had no 
sooner retired with unwilling steps, than, to the sur¬ 
prise of the Lady of Ivanhoe, her fair visitant kneeled 
on one knee, pressed her hands to her forehead, and 
bending her head to the ground, in spite of Rowena’s 
resistance, kissed the embroidered hem of her tunic. 

‘‘What means this, lady?” said the surprised bride; 
•“or why do you offer to me a deference so unusual?” 

“Because to you, Lady of Ivanhoe,” said Rebecca, 
rising up and resuming the usual quiet dignity of 
her manner, “I may lawfully, and without rebuke, 
pay the debt of gratitude which I owe to Wilfred of 
Ivanhoe. I am—forgive the boldness which has of¬ 
fered to you. the homage of my country—I am the 
unhappy Jewess, for whom your husband hazarded 
his life against such fearful odds in the tilt-yard oi 
Templestowe.” 

“Damsel,” said Rowena, “Wilfred of Ivanhoe or 



IVANHOE 


639 


that day rendered back but in slight measure your 
unceasing charity towards him in his wounds and 
misfortunes. Speak, is there aught remains in which 
he or I can serve thee?” 

“Nothing,” said Rebecca, calmly, “unless you will 
transmit to him my grateful farewell.” 

“You leave England, then?” said Rowena, scarce 
recovering the surprise of this extraordinary visit. 

“I leave it, lady, ere this moon again changes. My 
father hath a brother high in favor with Moham¬ 
med Boabdil, King of Grenada—thither we go, se¬ 
cure of peace and protection, for the payment of such 
ransom as the Moslem exact from our people.” 

And are you not then as well protected in Eng¬ 
land? said Row'ena. “My husband has favor with 
the^ King—the King himself is just and generous.” 

“Lady,” said Rebecca, “I doubt it not—but the 
people of England are a fierce race, quarreling ever 
with their neighbors or among themselves, and ready 
to plunge, the sword into the bowels of each other. 
Such is no safe abode for the children of my people. 
Ephraim is an heartless dove—Issachar an overla¬ 
bored drudge, which stoops between two burdens. 
Not in a land of war and blood, surrounded by hostile 
neighbors, and distracted by internal factions, can 
Israel hope to rest during her wanderings.” 

“But you, maiden,” said Rowena—“you surely can 
have nothing to fear. She who nursed the sick-bed 
of Ivanhoe,” she continued, rising with enthusiasm— 
“she can have nothing to fear in England, where Sax¬ 
on and Norman will contend who shall most do her 
honor.” 

“Thy speech is fair, lady,” said Rebecca, “and thy 
purpose fairer; but it may not be—there is a gulf 
betwixt us. Our breeding, our faith, alike forbid 
either to pass over it. Farewell—yet, ere I go, in¬ 
dulge me one request. The bridal-veil hangs over 



640 


IVANHOE 


thy face; deign to raise it, and let me see the fea¬ 
tures of which fame speaks so highly.” 

“They are scarce worthy of being looked upon,” 
said Rowena; “but, expecting the same from my vis¬ 
itant, I remove the veil.” 

She took it off accordingly; and, partly from the 
consciousness of beauty, partly from bashfulness, she 
blushed so intensely, that cheek, brow, neck, and bos¬ 
om, were suffused with crimson. Rebecca blushed 
also, but it was a momentary feeling; and, mastered 
by higher emotions, passed slowly from her features 
like the crimson cloud, which changes color when the 
sun sinks beneath the horizon. 

“Lady,” she said, “the countenance you have 
deigned to show me will long dwell in my remem¬ 
brance. There reigns in it gentleness and goodness; 
and if a tinge of the world’s pride or vanities may 
mix with an expression so lovely, how should we 
chide that which is of earth for bearing some color 
of its original? Long, long will I remember your 
features, and bless God that I leave my noble deliver¬ 
er united with—” 

She stopped short—her eyes filled with tears. She 
hastily wiped them, and answered to the anxious 
inquiries of Rowena—“I am well, lady—well. But 
my heart swells when I think of Torquilstone and the 
lists of Templestowe.—Farewell. One, the most 
trifling part of my duty, remains undischarged. Ac¬ 
cept this casket—startle not at its contents.” 

Rowena opened the small silver-chased casket, and 
perceived a carcanet, or necklace, with ear-jewels of 
diamonds, which were obviously of immense value. 

“It is impossible,” she said, tendering back the 
casket. “I dare not accept a gift of such conse¬ 
quence.” 

“Yet keep it, lady,” returned Rebecca.—“You have 


IVANHOE 


641 


power, rank, command, influence; we have wealth, 
the source both of our strength and weakness; the 
value of these toys, ten times multiplied, would not 
influence half so much as your slightest wish. To you, 
therefore, the gift is of little value—and to me, 
what I part with is of much less. Let me not think 
you deem so wretchedly ill of my nation as your com¬ 
mons believe. Think ye that I prize these sparkling 
fragments of stone above my liberty? or that my 
father values them in comparison to the honor of his 
child? Accept them, lady—to me they are valueless. 
I will never wear jewels more.” 

“You are then unhappy!” said Rowena, struck with 
the manner in which Rebecca uttered the last words. 
“Oh, remain with us—the counsel of holy men will 
wean you from your erring law, and I will be a sis¬ 
ter to you.” 

“No, lady,” answered Rebecca, the same calm mel¬ 
ancholy reigning in her soft voice and beautiful fea¬ 
tures—“that may not be. I may not change the faith 
of my fathers like a garment unsuited to the climate 
in which I seek to dwell, and unhappy, lady, I will 
not be. He, to whom I dedicate my future life, will 
be my comforter, if I do His will.” 

“Have you then convents, to one of which you mean 
to retire?’ asked Rowena. 

“No, lady,” said the Jewess; “but among our peo¬ 
ple, since the time of Abraham downwards, have been 
women who have devoted their thoughts to Heaven, 
and their actions to works of kindness to men, tend¬ 
ing the sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving the 
distressed. Among these will Rebecca be numbered. 
Say this to thy lord, should he chance to inquire aft¬ 
er the fate of her whose life he saved.” 

There was an involuntary tremor on Rebecca’s 
voice, and a tenderness of accent, which perhaps be- 



642 


Ivan hoe 


trayed more than she would willingly have expressed. 
She hastened to bid Rowena adieu. 

“Farewell,” she said. “May He, who made both 
Jew and Christian, shower down on you His choicest 
blessings! The bark that wafts us hence will be un¬ 
der wav ere we can reach the port.” 

She glided from the apartment, leaving Rowena 
surprised as if a vision had passed before her. The 
fair Saxon related the singular conference to her 
husband, on whose mind it made a deep impression. 
He lived long and happily with Rowena, for they w T ere 
attached to each other by the bonds of early affec¬ 
tion, and they loved each other the more, from the 
recollection of the obstacles which had impeded their 
union. Yet it would be inquiring too curiously to 
ask, whether the recollection of Rebecca’s beauty and 
magnanimity did not recur to his mind more frequent¬ 
ly than the fair descendant of Alfred might altogeth¬ 
er have approved. 

Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of 
Richard, and was graced with farther marks of the 
royal favor. He might have risen gtill higher, but 
for the premature death of the heroic Cceur-de-Lion, 
before the Castle of Chaluz, near Limoges. With 
the life of a generous, but rash and romantic mon¬ 
arch, perished all the projects which his ambition 
and his generosity had formed! to whom may be 
applied, with a slight alteration, the lines composed 
by Johnson for Charles of Sweden— 

His fate was destined to a foreign strand, 

A pretty fortress and a “humble” hand; 

He left the name at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 




APPENDIX 


Author's Notes 
Castle of Coningslmrgh 

When I last saw this interesting ruin of ancient days, 
one of the very few remaining examples of Saxon fortifi¬ 
cation, I was strongly impressed with the desire of tracing 
out a sort of theory on the subject, which, from some 
recent acquaintance with the architecture of the ancient 
Scandinavians, seemed to me peculiarly interesting. I was, 
however, obliged by circumstances to proceed on my journey, 
without leisure to take more than a transient view of 
Coningsburgh. Yet the idea dwells so strongly in my 
mind, that I feel considerably tempted to write a page or 
two in detailing at least the outline of my hypothesis, 
leaving better antiquaries to correct or refute conclusions 
which are perhaps too hastily drawn. 

Those who have visited the Zetland Islands are familiar 
with the description of castles called by the inhabitants 
Burghs; and by the Highlanders — for they are also to be 
found both in the Western Isles and on the mainland— 
Duns. Pennant has engraved a view of the famous Dun- 
Dornadilla in Glenleg; and there are many others, all of 
them built after a peculiar mode of architecture, which 
argues a people in the most primitive state of society. The 
most perfect specimen is that upon the Island of Meusa, 
near to the mainland of Zetland, which is probably in the 
same state as when inhabited. 

It is a single round tower, the wall curving in slightly, 
and then turning outward again in the form of a dice-box, 
so that the defenders on the top might better protect the 
base. It is formed of rough stones, selected with care, and 
laid in courses or circles, with much compactness, but with¬ 
out cement of any sort; a fire was made in the center of 
the space which it encloses, and originally the building 
was probably little more than a wall drawn as a sort of 
screen around the great council fire of the tribe. But, 
although the means or ingenuity of the builders did not 
extend so far as to provide a roof, they supplied the want 





644 


Ivan hoe 


by constructing apartments in the interior of the walls 
of the tower itself. The circumvallation formed a double 
enclosure, the inner side of which was, in fact, two feet 
or three feet distant from the other, and connected by a 
concentric range of long flat stones, thus forming a series 
of concentric rings or stories of various heights, rising to 
the top of the tower. Each of these stories or galleries 
has four windows, facing directly to the points of the com¬ 
pass, and rising of course regularly above each other. These 
fo,ur perpendicular ranges of windows admitted air, and, 
the fire being kindled, heat, or smoke at least, to each of 
the galleries. The access from, gallery to gallery is equally 
primitive. A path, on the principle of an inclined plane, 
turns round and round the building like a screw, and gives 
access to the different stories, intersecting each of them in 
its turn, and thus gradually rising to the top of the wall 
of the tower. On the outside there are no windows; and 
I may add that an enclosure of a square, or sometimes a 
round form, gave the inhabitants of the Burgh an oppor- j 
tunity to secure any sheep or cattle which they might 
possess. 

Such is the general architecture of that very early period 
when the Northmen swept the sea, and brought to their 
rude houses, such as I have described them, the plunder 
of polished nations. In Zetland there are several scores of 1 
these Burghs, occupying, in every case, capes, headlands | 
islets, and similar places of advantage singularly well 
chosen. I remember the remains of one upon an island \ 
in a small lake near Lerwick, which at high tide comrnun 1 
icates with the sea, the access to which is very ingenious r 
by means of a causeway or dike, about three or foul f 
inches under the surface of the water. This causewaj j~ 
makes a sharp angle in its approach to the Burgh. Th< r 
inhabitants, doubtless, were well acquainted with this, bun' 
strangers, who might approach in a hostile manner, anef 
were ignorant of the curve of the causeway, would prob f; 
ably plunge into the lake, which is six or seven feet ii 
depth at the least. This must have been the device o 
some Vauban or Cohorn of those early times. 

The style of these buildings evinces that the architee 
possessed neither the art of using lime or cement of an 




Appendix 


645 


kind, nor the skill to throw an arch, construct a roof, or 
jerect a stair; and yet, with all this ignorance, showed 
great ingenuity in selecting the situation of Burghs, and 
jregulating the access to them, as well as neatness and 
regularity in the erection, since the buildings themselves 
show a style of advance in the arts scarcely consistent 
jwith the ignorance of so many of the principal branches of 
architectural knowledge. 

I have always thought that one of the most curious 
and valuable objects of antiquaries has been to trace the 
progress of society by the efforts made in early ages to 
improve the rudeness of their first expedients, until they 
either approach excellence, or, as is more frequently the 
case, are supplied by new and fundamental discoveries, 
which supersede both the earlier and ruder system, and 
the improvements which have been ingrafted upon it. For 
example, if we conceive the recent discovery of gas to be 
30 much improved and adapted to domestic use as to su¬ 
persede all other modes of producing domestic light, we 
ean already suppose, some centuries afterwards, the heads 
}f a whole society of antiquaries half turned by a pair of 
patent snuffers, and by the learned theories which would 
:>e brought forward to account for the form and purpose 
)f so singular an implement. 

I Following some such principle, I am inclined to regard 
[he singular Castle of Coningsburgh—I mean the Saxon 
)art of it—as a step in advance from the rude architecture, 
f it deserves the name, which must have been common 
o the Saxons as to other Northmen. The builders had 
ittained the art of using cement, and of roofing a building, 
—great improvements on the original Burgh. But in the 
■ound keep, a shape only seen in the ancient castles—the 
hambers excavated in the thickness of the walls and but- 
resses—the difficulty by which access is gained from one 
tory to those above it, Coningsburgh still retains the sim¬ 
plicity of its origin, and shows by what slow degrees man 
proceeded from occupying such rude and inconvenient lodg- 
ngs as were afforded by the galleries of the Castle of 
4ousa, to the more splendid accommodations of the Nor- 
aan castles, with all their stern and Gothic graces. 

I am ignorant if these remarks are new, or if they will 





646 


IVANHOE 


be confirmed by closer examination; but I think that, on 
a hasty observation, Coningsburgh offers means of curious 
study to those who may wish to trace the history of archi¬ 
tecture back to the times preceding the Norman Conquest. 

It would be highly desirable that a cork model should 
be taken o,f the Castle of Miousa, as it cannot be well un¬ 
derstood by a plan. 

The Castle of Coningsburgh is thus described: The 
castle is large, the outer walls standing on a pleasant 
accent from the river, but much overtopt by a high hill, 
on which the town stands, situated at the head of a rich 
and magnificent vale, formed by an amphitheatre of woody 
hills, in which flows the gentle Don. Near the castle is a 
barrow, said to be Hengist’s tomb. The entrance is flanked 
to the left by a round tower, with a sloping base, and 
there are several similar in the outer wall; the entrance 
has piers of a gate, and on the east side the ditch and 
bank are double and very steep. On the top of the church¬ 
yard wall is a tombstone, on which are cut in high relief, 
two ravens, o,r such-like birds. On the south side of the 
churchjmrd lies an ancient stone, ridged like a coffin, on 
which is carved a man on horseback; and another man 
with a shield encountering a vast winged serpent, and a 
man bearing a shield behind him. It was probably one of 
the rude crosses not uncommon in churchyards in this 
county . . . The name of Coningsburgh, by which this 
castle goes in the old editions of the Britannia, would lead 
one to suppose it the residence of the Saxon kings. It 
afterwards belonged to King Harold. The Conqueror be¬ 
stowed it on William de Warren, with all its privileges* 
and jurisdiction, which are said to have extended over' 
twenty-eight towns. At the corner of the area, which is* 
of an irregular form, stands the great tower, or keep* 
placed on a small hill of its own dimensions on whict'i 
lies six vast projecting buttresses, ascending in a steep 
direction to prop and support the building, and continue^ 
upwards the sides as turrets. The tower within formr 
a complete circle, twenty-one feet in diameter, the wall: 
fourteen feet thick. The ascent into the tower is by an 
exceeding deep flight of steep steps, four feet and a hal 
wide, on the south side leading to a low doorway, ove 



Appendix 


647 


wliich is a circular arch crossed by a great transom stone. 
v\ ithin this door is the staircase, which ascends straight 
thiough the thickness of the wall, not communicating with 
the room on the first floor, in whose centre is the opening 
to the dungeon. Neither of these lower rooms is lighted 
' exce Pt from a hole in the floor of the third story; the 
| room in which, as well as in that above it, is finished ’with 
compact smooth stonework, both having chimney-pieces, 
with an arch resting on triple clustered pillars. In the 
third story, or guard-chamber, is a small recess with a 
loop-hole, probably a bedchamber, and in that floor above 
I a niche for a saint or a holy-water pot. Mr. King im¬ 
agines this a Saxon castle of the first ages of the Hep¬ 
tarchy. Mr. Watson thus describes it. From the first floor 
to the second story, (third from the ground), is a way by 
a stair in the wall five feet wide. The next staircase is 
approached by a ladder, and ends at the fourth story from 
the ground. Two yards from the door, at the head of this 
stair, is an opening nearly east, accessible by treading on 
the ledge of the wall, which diminished eight inches each 
story; and this last opening leads into a room or chapel 
ten feet by twelve, and fifteen or sixteen high, arched with 
freestone, and supported by small circular columns of the 
same, the capitals and arches Saxon. It has an east win¬ 
dow, and on each side in the wall, about four feet from 
the ground, a stone basin, with a hole and iron pipe to 
is one of the buttresses, but no sign of it without, for even 
the window, though large within, is only a long narrow 
loop-hole, scarcely to be seen without. On the left side of 
this chapel is a small oratory, eight by six in the thickness 
I of the wall, with a niche in the wall, and enlightened by a 
like loop-hole. The fourth stair from the ground, ten feet 
west from the chapel door, leads to the top of the tower 
through the thickness of the wall, which at top is but three 
yards. Each story is about fifteen feet high, so that the 
tower will be seventy-five feet from the ground. The in¬ 
side forms a circle, whose diameter may be about twelve 
feet. The wall at the bottom of the dungeon is piled with 
stones. — Scott’s note. — Gough's Edition of Camden's Britan¬ 
nia. Second Edition, Vol. Ill, p. 267. 



648 


IVANHOE 


Derwent 

Battle of Stamford, 

A great topographical blunder occurred here in former 
editions. The bloody battle alluded to in the text, fought 
and won by King Harold over his brother, the rebellious 
Tosti, and an auxiliary force of Danes or Norseman, was 
said in the text and a corresponding note, to have taken 
place at Stamford, in Leicestershire, and upon the river 
Welland. This is a mistake into which the author has been 
led by trusting to his memory, and so confounding two 
places of the same name. The Stamford, Strangford, upon 
the river Derwent, at the distance of about seven miles 
from York, and situated in that large and opulent county. 
A long wooden bridge over the Derwent, the site of which, 
with one remaining buttress, is still shown to the curious 
traveller, was furiously contested. One Norwegian long 
defended it by his single arm, and was at length pierced 
with a spear thrust through the planks of the bridge from 
a boat beneath. 

The neighbourhood of Stamford, on the Derwent, con¬ 
tains some memorials of the battle. Horseshoes, swords, 
and the heads of halberds, or bills, are often found there; 
one place is called the Danes’ Well, another the Battle 
Flats. From a tradition that the weapon with which the 
Norwegian champion was slain resembled a pear, or, as 
others say, that the trough or boat in which the soldier 
floated under the bridge to strike the blow had such a 
shape, the country people usually begin a great market, 
which is held at Stamford, with an entertainment called 
the Pear-pie feast, which, after all, may be a corruption 
of the Spear-pie feast. For more particulars, Drake’s 
History of York may be referred to. The author’s mistake 
was pointed out to him, in the most obliging manner, by 
Robert Belt, Esq., of Bossal House. The battle was fought 
in 1066.— Scott 

Heraldry 

The author has been here upbraided with false heraldry, 
as having charged metal upon metal. It should be re¬ 
membered, however, that heraldry had only its first rude 





Appendix 


649 


origin during the crusades, and that all the minutiae of 
its fantastic science were the work of time, and introduced 
at a much later period. Those who think otherwise must 
suppose that the goddess of Armoirers, like the goddess of 
Arms, sprung into the world completely equipped in all the 
guady trappings of the department she presides over. 

In corroboration of what is above stated, it may be ob¬ 
served that the arms which were assumed by Godfrey of 
Boulogne himself, after the conquest of Jerusalem, was a 
cross counter patent cantoned with four little crosses, or 
upon a field azure, displaying thus metal upon metal. The 
heralds have tried to explain this that a prince of God¬ 
frey’s qualities, should not be hound by the ordinary rules. 
The Scottish Nisbet, and the same Feme, insist that the 
chiefs of the Crusade must have assigned to Godfrey this 
extraordinary and unwonted coat-of-arms, in order to in¬ 
duce those who should behold them to make inquiries; 
and hence give them the name of arma inquirenda. But 
with reference to these grave authorities, it seems unlikely 
that the assembled princes of Europe should have adjudged 
to Godfrey a coat armorial so much contrary to the general 
rule, if such rule had then existed. At any rate, it proves 
that metal upon metal, now accounted a solecism in herald¬ 
ry, was admitted in other cases similar to that in the text. 
—iScott. (See Feme’s Blazon of Gentrie, page 238, edition 
1586; Nisbet’s Heraldry, Vol. 1, p. 113, second edition.) 

Hedge-Priests 

It is curious to observe, that in every state of society, 
some sort of ghostly consolation is provided for the mem¬ 
bers of the community, though assembled for purposed dia¬ 
metrically opposite to religion. A gang of beggars have 
their Patrice, and the banditti of the A pennies have among 
them persons acting as monks and priests, by whom they 
are confessed, and who perform mass before them. Un¬ 
questionably, such reverend persons, in such a society, must 
accommodate their manners and their morals to the com¬ 
munity in which they live; and if they can occasionally 
obtain a degree of reverence for their supposed spiritual 
gifts, are, on most occasions, loaded with unmerciful ride 



650 


IVANHOE 


cule, as possessing a character inconsistent with all around 
them. 

Hence the fighting parson in the old play of Sir John 
Oldcastle. and the famous friar of Robin Hood’s band. Nor 
were such characters ideal. There exists a monition of 
the Bishop of Durham against irregular churchmen of this 
class, who associated themselves with Border robbers, and 
desecrated the holiest offices of the priestly function by 
celebrating them for the benefit of thieves, robbers, and 
murderers, amongst ruins and in caverns of the earth, 
without regard to canonical form, and with torn and dirty 
attire, and maimed rites, altogether improper for the oc- 
ca sion. — -Scott. 

Minstrelsy 

The realm of France, it is well known, was divided be¬ 
twixt the Norman and Teutonic race, who spoke the lan¬ 
guage in which the word “yes” is pronounced as out, and 
the inhabitants of the Southern regions, whose speech, 
bearing some affinity to the Italian, pronounced the same 
word oc. The poets of the former race were called Min¬ 
strels, and their poems lays; those of the latter were termed 
Troubadours, and their compositions called sirventes, and 
other names. Richard, a professed admirer of the joyous 
science in all its branches, could imitate either the min¬ 
strel or troubadour. It is less likely that he should have 
been able to compose or sing an English ballad; yet so* 
much do we wish to assimilate him of the Lion Heart to \ 
the band of warriors whom he led, that the anarchronism, j 
if there be one, may readily be forgiven. — Scott. 

Negro Slaves 

The severe accuracy of some critics has objected to the 
complexion of the slaves of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as 
being totally out of costume and propriety. I remember 
the same objection being made to a set of sable function¬ 
aries, whom my friend, Mat Lewis, introduced as the guards 
and mischief-doing satellites of the wicked Baron in his 
Castle Spectre. Mat treated the objection with great con¬ 
tempt, and averred in reply that he made the slaves black 



Appendix 


651 


in order to obtain a striking effect of contrast, and that, 
could he have derived a similar advantage from making 
his heroine blue, blue she should have been. 

I do not pretend to plead the immunities of my orders so 
highly as this; but neither will I allow that the author 
of a modern antique romance is obliged to confine himself 
to the introduction of those manners only which can be 
proved to have absolutely existed in the times he is de¬ 
picting, so that he restrain himself to such as are plausible 
and natural, and contain no obvious anachronism. In this 
point of view, what can be more natural than that the 
Templers, who, we know, copied closely the luxuries of the 
Asiatic warriors with whom they fought, should use the 
service of the enslaved Africans, whom the fate of war 
transferred to ne'w masters? I am sure, if there are no 
precise proofs of their having done so, there is nothing, on 
the other hand, that can entitle us positively to conclude 
that they never did; besides, there is an instance in ro¬ 
mance. 

John of Rampayne, an excellent juggler and minstrel, 
undertook to effect the escape of one Audulf de Bracy, by 
presenting himself in disguise at the court of the King, 
where he was confined. For this purpose, “he stained his 
hair and his whole body entirely black as jet, so that noth¬ 
ing was white but his teeth,” and succeeded in imposing) 
himself on the King as an Ethiopian minstrel. He effected, 
by stratagem, the escape of the prisoner. Negroes, there¬ 
fore must have been known in England in the dark ages. 
—Scott. 

The Ranger of the Forest 

A most sensible grievance of those aggrieved times were 
the Forest Laws. These oppressive enactments were the 
produce of the Norman Conquest; for the Saxon laws of 
the chase were mild and humane, while those of William, 
enthusiastically attached to the exercise and its rights, 
were to the last degree tyrannical. The formation of the 
New Forest bears evidence to his passion for hunting, 
where he reduced many a happy village to the condition 
of that one commemorated by my friend, Mr. William 
Stewart Rose: 






652 


IVANHOE 


“Amongst the ruins of the church 
The midnight raven found a perch 
A melancholy place; 

The ruthless Conqueror cast down. 

Woe worth the deed, that little town 
To lengthen out his chase.” 

The disabling of dogs, which might be necessary for 
keeping flocks and herds from running at the deer, was 
called lawing, and was in general use. The charter of the 
Forest Laws, designed to lessen those evils, declares that in¬ 
quisition, or view, for lawing dogs shall be made every 
third year, and shall be then done by the view and testimony 
of lawful men, not otherwise; and they wijose dogs shall be 
then found unlawed, shall give three shillings for mercy 
and for the future no man’s ox shall be taken for lawing. 
Such lawing also shall be done by the assize commonly 
used, and which is, that three claws shall be cut oft' without 
the ball of the right foot.— Scott. 


GLOSSARY 

A fayre for the moistre —a likely one for promotion; a by¬ 
word. 

A shot at rovers —a shot at random. 

.4 la recourse —to the rescue. 

Accoutered\ —equipped. 

Acquittance —a receipt. 

Agraffe —ornamented clasp. 

Alchemist —one skilled in medieval chemistry; he expected 
to turn base metal to gold. 

Alembic —an instrument used in distilling; upper part of a 

still. 

Allen-a-dale —-minstrel of Robin Hood’s outlaw band. 
Anchorite —a hermit. 

Anon —presently. 

Arblast —crossbow. 

Armades —Spanish for war fleets. 

Arrant —notoriously bad. 

A rrets —decrees. 

Ashalon —city belonging to Philistines. 

Assoilzie —'acquit him. 

Auferte molum ex vobis —Put the evil away from you. 
Avaunt^ depart. 

Aves —a devotion to Virgin Mary. 

Avoid thee—Ale part thee. 

Bacchus —god of wine. 

Barbed —equipped with armor. 

Barret —a flat military cap. 

Barrow —burial mound. 

Basta —enough. 

Batoon —staff or officer. 

Bauble —a fool’s stick here. 

Beau-seant —name of Templar’s banner. 

Beccaficocs —garden warblers. 

Bechet, Thomas a Becket —Archbishop of Canterbury. 
Beech-mast —beech nuts. 

Bell and ram —gifts given in contests. 






654 


IVANHOE 


Benison —blessing. 

Benoni —child of sorrow. 

Beshrew — a mild curse upon a person. 

Beshrew their hands — cursed be tbeir bands. 

Bevis of Hampton — 'hero of English romance. 

Bewrayed — betrayed. 

Breviary — a book containing prayers. 

Biggin — 'Child’s cap. 

Billet —note. 

Bills — a hooked weapon on end of pole. 

Black letter garlands — 'ballads in old English type. 

Black Sanctus —a mock hymn. 

Boggle — hesitate. 

Bondsman .— slave. 

Boon —favor, often asked before the terms were made 
known. 

Boot — over and above; to boot, means, for advantage, in ad¬ 
dition to. 

Breviary — a prayer book. 

Brimmer — a bowl tilled to the brim. 

Broadswords— ia knife-like weapon on a pole. 

Brook — tolerate. 

Brown-Mil — -a weapon. 

Bull-baiting — .worrying of the bull with dogs. 

Bull of the Holy See — edict of papal authority. 

Barrel cloth — coarse russet cloth of medieval times. 
Buskins —high boots. 

Byzart —a medieval coin. 

Byzantium > — from Spain to Constantinople. 

Byzant —a coin of Byzantium. 

Cabal — conspiracy of secret party. 

Cabalist — -a mystic. 

Caitiff — ivile or wretched, captives. 

Candelabras — a branched candle stick. 

Calumniators — 'slanderers. 

Canticles — 'Song of Solomon. 

Cap-a-pie — from head to foot. 

Capital — chapter. 

Capul — horse. 



Glossary 


655 


Cardinal — one of chief advisory council of Pope. He wore 
a red cap. 

Cardecu —small silver coin. 

Carmelites — monks from Mt. Carmel. 

Cartel —a written challenge. 

Cast — stroke; help. 

Casque — helmet. 

Cavalcade — parade of riders. 

Ceries —certainly. 

Chapter-houses assembly buildings in monasteries. 

Churl — one of lowest class freemen. 

Cfircumva.ll ation — surrounding wall. 

Clept within the ring —smaller circumference than normal. 
Clericus clericum non decimal — one clergy does not take 
titles from another. 

Clerk — clergy or educated men. 

Close — inclosed ground. 

Cockscomb — a fool’s cap. 

Communis mother — common mother. 

Composition —agreement. 

Compt — account. 

Concentric — having same center. 

Conditioning that— stipulating that. 

Confiteor — “I confess.” 

Connive — to assent to a wrong by silence. 

Consuetude — custom. 

Cope-stone — top-stone. 

Courses — bouts at tournament. 

Crave — take. 

Craven s — cow a r d s. 

Credit me — believe me. 

Credo — one creed. 

Cri de guerre —war-cry. 

Crosier — emblem of bishop’s office. 

Crowds, or Crowth — species of violin, 

Crown —a silver coin worth about $1.20. 

Crypt — secret places. 

Curtal Friar — short frair, or one with his hair docked or 
cut short. 




656 


Ivan hoe 


De facto — in face; actual; contract de jure. 

De Lections Literarum — concerning the reading of letters. 
De profundis clamavi — iSee Psalms CXXX, 1. 
Demi-courbette — half-leap. 

Denisons — citizens. 

Derry-down chorus — chorus which repeats words with no 
particular meaning. 

Derring-do — desperate courage. 

Despardieux — In God’s name. (An oath). 

Destrier — “War-hofse.” 

Derwent — a river near York. 

Deus faciat salvam benignitatem vestram —God save youi 
Reverence. 

Deus vobiscum —God be with you. 

Devoir —duty. 

Dial — sun dial. 

Did host reason — to give satisfaction. 

Diocesan — bishop. [ 

Disforested — free from forest laws. 

Disport? —diversion. 

Distaff — holder for flax. 

Do me reason —pledge me. 

Dole — funeral gifts dealt out. 

Donjon —chief tower. 

Doit — a small Dutch coin. •] 

Dortour — dormitory. 

Double-file — front and rear rank. 

Dross — base metal; money. 

Dubiety— uncertainty. 

Emir — a Mohammedan chief or leader. 

Encomium — expression of praise. 

Enow — enough. 

Equerry — officer in charge of horses of knight. 

Errant — roving; wandering. 

Escutcheon —a herald’s shield. 

Essoine —an excuse for non-appearance. 

Estrada — an elevated part of floor. 

Evanescent — liable to pass away. 

Excommunicabo vos—J. shall excommunicate you. 
Exceptus exceptendis — excepting what is to be excepted. 




Glossary 


657 


/ (/(?/< robis amicos de Mammons iniquitates — See Luke 
XVI, 9. 

Suites vos devoirs , preux chevaliers — perform your duty, 
brave knjghts. 

Falcon-ways—like a falcon or hawk. 

Fatal sisters— three Greek Fates; cf. the Witches, in Mac¬ 
beth. 

Felon —-foul. 

Fiat voluntas tua — Thy will be done. 

Fj,ef grant of land offered from lord to vassal in feudal 
system. 

Flanders— portion of Belgium, Holland, and France. 
Fleur-de-lis — the arms of France. 

Flitch — strip; side. 

Folk-free and Sacles* — “A lawful freeman.” 

Foray — marauding expedition. 

Fore fend — forbid. 

Fortalice — a little fort. 

Franklin — a freeman in Feudal system. 

Free of his guild — enjoying special privilege granted to 
jester. 

Fructus Temporum — “Fruit of the Time,” a book. 

Gaberdine — coat worn by Jews, and others. 

Gage — challenge. 

Gammon — a cured ham. 

Genuflections — bending of the knee. 

Glascon — a native of Glascony, a French province. 

Geoffrey, Archbishop — half-brother of John. 

Gorget — armor protecting the throat. 

Gramercy — many thanks. 

Greek-fire — a combustible mixture said to explode under 

water. 

Guerdon— Reward. 

Guild — a sort of trade-union. 

Guy of Warwick — hero of English romance. 

Gymmal ring —ring formed of interlocking chains. 

Gyves — fetter. 

Hacquetoi . -^a jacket worn under armor. 

Halberdiers — persons armed with halberds. 




658 


IVANHOE 


Haldcress —a district in Yorkshire. 

Hal fling — half a penny. 

Halidom — sacred honor. 

Hall — chief room in Saxon house. 

Hallo —applause. 

Hamstringing —cutting the tendons on the legs of a horse. 
Hardicanute — /Danish King of England in eleventh century. 
Harlequin — comic character in pantomime. 

Harnesses — Knight’s armor. 

Harold — >Saxon King defeated by William the Conqueror. 
Harrying — pillage. 

Hauberk— -a coat of mail. 

Hawks —ifalcons used in hunting. 

Hazard— take a chance. 

Hen gist — one of first Saxons to invade England. 

Her ship — pillage, such as the raiding of cattle. 

Hide —measure of land. 

Hilding — worthless coward. 

Hind —farm laborer. 

Holy gear — holy business; gear was as general as our mod¬ 
ern word thing. 

Homily — sermon. 

Hostelry — an inn. 

Hotspur —a character in the play King Henry IV, Part I. 
II, 3, 86. 

Hornr- symbol of power. See Psalms CXII, 9. 

Houris — nymphs of Mohammedan Paradise. 

Housing — covering for a horse. 

Howlet — 'Small owl. 

Hugh de Payen and Godfrey de Saint Omer— two founders 
or the town of England. 

Hull - -Coast town of England. 

Hutch—& small lark closet or chest. 

I can well — I know well. 

In th , clout — center of the mark. 

Indited — wrote. 

Inter reo sacras — among sacred things. 

Ishmaelites — children and descendants of son of Hagar 
and Abraham. 




Glossary 


659 


J ealous — suspicious. 

Jennet — small Spanish saddle horse. 

J erkin — jacket. 

Jousts — tilts or tournaments. 

Knave — in the sense of “boy.” 

Kent — Thomas a Becket. 

Knights Templars — a military order founded in Jerusalem 
in twel th century. 

Laces — fastenings. 

Lady Venus — Goddess of Love. 

Laity — people distinguished from clergy. 

Laissez aider — let go. 

Lancelot de Lac —Knight of King Arthur. 

Lanquedoe — old province in France. 

Largess — a gift. 

Lawless resolutes — desperadoes. 

Le don d ’amoureux — 'the favor of her love. 

Leord —a former French coin. 

Lee-gage — on side protected from wind. 

Levch — attend. 

Levin— fire; thunder and lightning. 

Liar&—u small French coin, about six cents in value. 
Liege —a sovereign. 

Lists — field of combat. 

Locksley — Robin Hood. 

Lurcher — a poacher; a thief. 

Maccabeus — 'Judas Maccabeus who delivered Judea. 

Mace —medieval steel club. 

Magic —signs. 

M ails —mail-bags. 

Make in —rush in. 

Malapert — bold ; forward. 

Malison — curse. 

Mammocks —fragments, scraps. 

Mammon of unrighteousness —money. 

Mancus — Anglo-Saxon coin worth about sixty-one cents. 
Mangonel — stone-throwing machine. 


660 


IVANHOE 


Manus imponere in servos Domini —to lay hands on ser¬ 
vants of the Lord. 

Maravedi —a small Spanish coin worth two-fifths of a cent. 
Matin chime —bell for morning prayer. 

Maugre —in spite of. 

Mead —a fermented liquor in which honey was the chief in¬ 
gredient. 

Meed —'reward. 

Mell —meddle. 

Men 'of Belial —Sons of the Devil. 

Men-at-arms —common soldiers. 

Meric —a mark, a coin. 

Minion —favorite. 

Missal —book containing service for mass. 

Miter —covering for head of church dignitaries. 

Moat —a trench around castle for protection. 

Moiety —one-half. 

Morat —a Saxon drink, honey flavored with the juice of 
mulberries. 

Morte de me vie —'“Death of my life.” 

Morrion —an open helmet. 

“Mount joye St. Dennis”— battle cry of French Crusaders. 
Mowing —making a mouth. 

Mulled —heated and spiced. 

M ummery —performance. 

Murrain —plague of domestic animals. 

Muscadine —a sweet wine. 

Natheless —nevertheless. 

Nebulo quidam —a certain good for nothing. 

Necromancer —person practicing black art. 

Neophytes —recent convert. 

Noble —old English coin. 

Nook —piece. 

Nomen illis legio —See Mark V. 9. 

Nonce —for the time being. 

OJ)cron —king of fairies. 

O bstreperously —making great disturbance. 

Objurgation —a rebuke. 

Oratory —small chapel for prayer. 


Glossary 


661 


Orison —devotional prayer. 

Ossa ejus, etc— See Isaiah XXXVIII, 13. 

Oub liette —dungeon. 

Our Lady's brow —The Virgin Mary. 

Over God’s forbode —God forbid. 

Oyez —'“Hear ye” (French) ; proclamation made by court 
crier at beginning of court. 

Panegyric —Eulogy. 

• Panoply —complete equipment of warrior. 

Parapet —a low wall protecting balcony. 

Parisli-butt —target. 

Partisan —a pike, battle-axe. 

Pater —Ford’s prayer. 

Pater noster —“Our father.” 

Pavilions —tents. 

Pattered —muttered. 

Pax vobiscum —peace be with you. 

Paynim —heathen. 

Peccadilloes —trifling sins. 

Penance —voluntary punishment of sins. 

Pennon —a small swallow-tailed flag. 

Per apt s —charms against disease. 

Pilgrims —people who went on journeys to religious shrines. 
Pinfold —an enclosure for animals, pen. 

Piqued himself —prided himself. 

Phlebotomy —operation of blood letting. 

Plantagenet —family name of House of Anjou. 

Postern gate —private entrance. 

Pouch up —pocket; put up with. 

Pouncet box —powder box. 

Pranked —decorated. 

Preceptories —establishments of Knights Templars. 
Prepense —considered beforehand. 

Prior —strictly, head of priory. 

Propter necessitatem —on account of necessity. 

Propired —offered. 

Pulse —thick pottage made of vegetable. 

Punctilio —preciseness in observing ieremony. 

Pursuivants —attendants to the heralds. 

Purveyor—caterer, one in charge of food. 


662 


Ivan hoe 


Pyet — magpie. 

Pyx — vessel containing bread for Holy Communion. 

Quare fermuerunt gentesf — Why do the heathen rage? 
Quarter-staff —an old English weapon. 

Quondam-— former. 

Ranger — game warden in royal forest. 

Real — a small silver coin. 

Recks — matters. 

Refectories— ^dining-room in monastery. 

Reliquary — a small casket or locket for sacred relics. 
Rembrandt —a celebrated Dutch painter. 

Rere-supper — after evening meal. 

Resolve me — tell me. 

Rex delectabitur pulchritudine tua — The king shall have 
pleasure in thy beauty. 

Romaunts — romances. 

Rood — the cross. 

Rote — a sort of guitar. 

Round — violent. 

Rowel — spur. 

Runagate — wanderer. 

Runlet — wine from Canary Islands. 

Sacless — “A lawful freeman” (Scott). 

Sacristan — officer of room where all sacred vessels were 
kept. 

Saint Andrew's Day — November 30. 

Saint Augustine — one of most noted early Fathers. 

Saint Bernard — Ecclesiatic active in second crusade. 

Saint Dunstan — an Archbishop of Canterbury. 

Saint Francis — Founder of the Franciscans or Gray Friars. 
Saint George — a Christian martyr, adopted as patron saint 
of England during thQ reign of Edward III. 

Saint Genevieve — Patron saint of Paris. 

Saint Grizzel — model of patience and wifely obedience. 
Saint Hilda of Whitley — Abbess of convent at Whitley. 
Saint Marie — Holy Marie. 

Saint Nicholas — Patron saint of thieves as well as chil* 
dren. 


Glossary 


663 


Saint Robert —founder of Cistercians. 

Saint Withold — imaginary Saxon saint. 

Sallyport — gate. 

Sathanas — Satan. 

Scalds — Scandavinian poet or bard. 

SGallon — Shell, emblem of pilgrim. 

Scepter — emblein of a king. 

Scot-free — without tax. 

Script — a bag or pouch. 

Semper les percutiatur—<“ Let the lean always be beaten 
down.” 

Semper percutiatur leo vorans — “Always the ravening lion 
is to be smitten.” 

Senechals — stewards. 

Si quis suadent Diablo — “If anyone under the Devil’s 
guidance.” 

Shaveling—a. monk. 

Sheffield whittle — a knife made in Sheffield. 

Shrive — administer confession. 

Sibyl — a prophetess or fortune-teller. 

Simarre — light scarf-like robe. 

Swimel-breadr— sweet rich brittle cake, for Simmel Sunday, 
Christmas, or Easter. 

Sirach — one of "books of Apocrypha. 

Sirventes — Compositions of Troubadours. 

Sith — Since. 

Slow hounds — sleuth hounds. 

Solere chamber — one exposed to sun. 

Sortileges — sorcery. 

Soubriquet — nickname. 

Soul-scat — funeral tax. 

Springal — youth. 

Stead — iplace ; abode. 

• Stentorian —any person possessing a loud voice. Stentor, 
a herald in the Iliad, had a very loud voice. 

Stephen — a king of England 1135-1154. 

Strike —quality. 

Stole — a narrow band worn across shoulders by priests. 
Stoup — a drinking cup. 

Stool-ball —outdoor ball played chiefly by women. 
Sumpter-mule — baggage mule. . 


664 


IVANHOE 


Surguedy and outrecuidance —“Insolence and presumption.” 
—Scott. 


Talmud —law of Jewish people. 

Tar —un ancient antiseptic. 

Target —'Shield. 

Te igitur —“thee therefore.” 

Tell down thy ransom —count out thy ransom. 

Temple church —building occupied by Knight Templars in 
London. 

Thano —rank between freemen and hereditary nobles. 
Theow and Esne —”Thrall and bondsman.” 

Thrall —a slave. 

Titania —wife of Oberon, fairy Queen. 

To lay on load —to fight. 

Transmew —transform. 

Trebizond —a city on Black Sea. 

Trenchant —isharp. 

Tregetour —juggler; imposter. 

Trencher-man —table companion, good eater, cf. trencher, a 
dish. 

Tristam , Sir —Knight of King Arthur. 

Trivet —ia three-legged stand for cooking vessels. 
Troubadours —a group of lyric poets. 

Trow —suppose; think. 

Truss my points —fasten my laces; trousers were held up 
by trusses or laces. See trouser in the dictionary. 
Trysting tree —meeting place. 

Unguent —an ointment for outward application. 
Unhouseled —unconfessed. 

Unshrived —sacrament undelivered. 

Urus —a species of wild ox. 

Ut Leo Semper feriatur —“That the Lion, the Devil, may 
ever be smitten.” 

Ut omnium mulierum fugiantur oscula —That the kisses of 
all women are to be shunned. 

Vailing his bonnet —taking off his cap. 

Vair —fur worn by nobility. 

Varlet —servant, (in contempt) 




Glossary 


665 


Vassalage — term of feudalism. A vassal was obliged to 
till land and fight for his lord. 

V enerie — hunting. 

Vert and venison — the fight to cut growing wood and to 
kill deer in forest. 

Vinum laetificat cor hominis — wine maketh glad the heart. 
Virelai — old form of French verse, or song. 

Visors — masks. 

Vituperating —railing at. 

Volatile — easily influenced. 

Vulnerary — adapted to effect a cure. 

Waes hael —“I drink to you,” modern wassail. Literally, 
be hale, like “Here’s to you,” a drinking toast. 

Warden — staff. 

Wjastel — fine white bread or cake. The'nun in Chaucer, fed 
her dogs on such bread. 

Weasand —windpipe, cf. wheeze. 

White — bulls’ eye of target. 

Whittle — a knife made in Sheffield. 

Wicket — a small gate near a large one. 

William the Second —son of William the Conqueror. 

Wisest of monarchs — ISolomon. 

Witanagemotes — national council of Saxons ; meeting of 
the wise men. 

Wittal — fool (Saxon). 

Yoemanry — country gentry. 

Z ecchin — a gold coin of Venice. 

Z ernehack — a Slavic demon. 




■ 

. 


SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS 


Many a child has had his appreciation for literature* 
spoiled because he never could accomplish it; he could not 
reach the end. Because Ivanhoe has many words that 
need explanation, there is a temptation placed before a 
teacher to take time to make the children explain every 
word. Here is a case of “He who hesitates is lost.” Let 
the child read, read as rapidly as he can, perhaps about 
forty pages a day, understanding as much as he can, but 
insist upon his reading to the finish. After he has read 
through the first two hundred pages with aid of the ques¬ 
tions at the bottom of each page, the notes, and hints from 
the teacher, he will begin to understand and gain enjoy¬ 
ment from the story. 

After the story has been finished, most of the reading 
being done silently in class, the child is ready to begin 
to study different phases of the book. The contracts fojf- 
lowing are suggestive of questions that make him think 
of the story as a whole. If he did not comprehend certain 
parts as he read them the first time, he can read those 
parts again to gain the necessary information. 

This method of course is not the old question and answer 
method wherein the “human sponges” gain the story with¬ 
out having to read. The contracts suggested are for in¬ 
dividual work entirely and the child completes each con¬ 
tract as he is capable of doing it. The notes on each page 
are to aid the reader in understanding and are not placed 
there as points upon which children must be forced to 
recite each day. 

Frequently, it is wise for children to read the introduc¬ 
tion to a book after the book has been studied. An at¬ 
tempt has been made to bring out the human interest side 
of the author’s life in the following points: (1) Scott 
was a typical boy, human just as all children are; (2) as 
he lived, Scott gained information from books and obser¬ 
vation; (3) Scott, while he was handicapped, overcame all 
difficulties until he won success honorably; (4) Scott knew 
how to work; (5) Scott was a world figure in his day; 
(6) Ivanhoe is a great and thrilling tale. A few instances 


668 


IVANHOE 


are quoted from the authoritative Lockhart’s Life of Scott 
to let children know there is such a biography. This work 
which was written by Scott’s son-in-law will make splendid 
supplementary material, if any is desired. 

A Suggested Program for Ivanhoe 

I. Contract I will require from a week for the average 
pupils to two weeks for the slower ones. (The slowest 
may require much longer so that they can not be required 
to read as many books in a semester as the stronger pupils.) 

II. For average pupils, contract II should be completed 
by the middle of the second week. 

III. Contract III should be completed by the end of the 
second week. 

IY. Contract IV will take up the first two or three days 
of the third week. 

Y. Contract V will complete the week. 

VI. Contract VI can be a special contract for those who 
wish to make better grades. 

The point of each contract with the purpose underlying 
each of the suggested contracts is: 

1. Reading of the entire book before any lengthy discus¬ 
sion at all. 

2. Questions that require a second reading by those who 
were careless, without the teacher having to re-as¬ 
sign it. 

3. Written and oral composition on questions that lead 
to original and creative thought, in that the subjects 
require active imagination. Many topics are stated in 
a peculiar manner to make the students think. 

4. Historical background worked up in an interesting 
original manner. 

5. Dramatization to emphasize the action in the book; 
to bring about social contact among students; to make 
the children live the story. 

6. Drawings to stimulate creative thinking. Surely Sir 
Walter Scott himself gives us a wise hint when he ' 
says, “Indeed, I rather suspect that children derive 
impulse of powerful and important kind in hearing 
things which they cannot entirely comprehend; and 




Suggestions to Teachers and Students 669 


therefore, that to write down to children's understand¬ 
ing is a mistake; set them on the scent, and let them 
puzzle it out.” 

7. Figuratively speaking, each pupil enters into a con¬ 
tract to do a certain definite part of the work. The 
plan is devised to take advantage of individual differ^ 
ences and preferences. 

Suggested Contracts for Ivanhoe 
Objectives 

I. To become acquainted with one of the world’s great 
stories. 

II. To learn to read rapidly and well. 

III. To find something interesting and exciting in a book 
termed a “classic,” 

IV. To gain power to read difficult material which is 
worth while because of the returns it brings for one’s 
trouble. 

Contract I 

You are to read the entire book in as short a time as 
possible for you to master the story. See that you know: 

I. If Cedric frees Gurth. 

II. If Ivanhoe marries Rebecca. 

III. If Athelstane is buried alive? 

IV. Who the Black Knight, the Palmer, Locksley are. 
The notes and questions at the bottom of the pages are 

to aid you in interpretation. Read as rapidly as you can 
understandingly. The dictionary and glossary are splendid 
aids in all cases of doubt as to meaning. 

Contract II 

After the book has been read, re-read, if necessary, to 
work out the answers to the following questions: 

I. How many times does the Black Knight appear in 
the story? 

II. How many times does Locksley appear in the story? 

III. With what different classes of people does the Black 
Knight deal throughout the book? 

IV. To what parts of the story is Rowena necessary? 

V. Does she ever appear when she is not needed? 



670 


IVANHOE 


VI. Where does Isaac appear in the story? 

VII. Should the book be called “Ivanhoe” or “The Black 
Knight?” 

VIII. When does Rebecca appear in the story? 

IX. Could any one of the following characters be left 
out without the story being spoiled: Gurth, Wamba, 
Athelstane, Friar Tuck, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, 
Albert Mialvoisin, Cedric, Prince John, Robin Hood, 
and Prior Aymer? Substantiate your statement 
with proofs and arguments. 

X. Name the characters who appear in the story for 
a short time only, and tell what purpose each ful¬ 
fills. 

Contract III 

Bring in imaginary themes on one of the following topics: 

1. What becomes of Rowena when Ivanhoe marries Re¬ 
becca ? 

2. Locksley refuses to become Richard’s right hand man 
because he is too busy. 

8. Isaac decided to announce to the world how he made 
his wealth. 

4. The modern foot-ball suit is a reminder of the old 
armor. 

5. Foot-ball vs. a tournament. 

Take your time in working out your theme in order that 

you may have something interesting to read to a group 

of students. 

Contract IV 

Prepare a ten minute talk on one of the following topics: 

I. Scott, the boy, the man, and the author. 

II. Scotland, the home of Scott. 

III. Early England, Middle England, Modern England. 

IV. Ivanhoe is a success to-day. (Either side may be 
taken.) 

Contract V 

Dramatization of Ivanhoe. 

The class .is to be divided into three or four groups. A 






SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS AND STUDENTS 671 


chairman for each group can choose his followers. Each 
group then is responsible for the dramatization of a certain 
section of the book: Group I, the first eleven chapters: 
Group II, eleven to twenty-two chapters, Group III, twenty- 
two to thirty-three, and Group IV, thirty-three through 
forty-four. 

Each group then takes the following steps: 

1. Members of group decide upon what scenes to drama¬ 
tize in the time allotted, perhaps one recitation. 

2. The chairman and members of each group decide upon 
the members of the cast. 

3. Each member of the cast studies the character he is 
to be. If he cares to go to the 'expense, he can dress 
the part; if he does not care to expend money, 
he can throw himself into the dramatization so well 
that everyone forgets the costumes. 

I. Each group tries to excel the other in presenting its 
dramatization. Original ways of bridging the gap be¬ 
tween scenes can be divised. In some cases perhaps 
one person can tell the events that take place in the 
story between the dramaization of scenes. 

Contract VI 

For those of you who can not draw, go through the 
f>ook picking out ideas that would make good cartoons for 
?ach chapter. Try to imagine a dominent idea that makes 
i good small drawing for the heading of each chapter. 

You do not have to draw well to be able to work out 
lever ideas on each chapter. The pictures on the next 
)age and on page in the front of the book belong to differ¬ 
ent chapters of the book. See if you can figure to which 
‘hapter they fit best. You can draw some better ones for 
r our own contract. These will give you an idea as to what 
o do. 




672 


IVANHOE 




Find the chapters these cartoons illustrate. 
























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